Perfect Pitch
by dust on the wind
Summary: The life of an old friend and the safety of the whole operation are at risk...unless Hogan's men can sing their way out of it...
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own any of the characters from the series Hogan's Heroes. However, I claim ownership of any original characters appearing in this story._

* * *

The last gleam of sunset cast a glow of amber warmth across the barbed wire, and the forest surrounding Stalag 13 was alive with the calls of little creatures preparing for night.

Within the boundaries of the camp, voices were raised as well. From Barracks 10, the sweet, well-rehearsed harmonies of Lieutenant Doyle's male voice ensemble floated in perfect unity of purpose, proof against the competition provided by Barracks 9, who were up to the seventh verse of _The Good Ship Venus_, completely unrehearsed but belted out with great enthusiasm. And in Barracks 2, the atmosphere was filled in equal measure by the rich aroma of an excellent vegetable _tagine_, and the voice of the cook singing as he worked.

_Il est un homme en no' ville  
__qui de sa femme est jaloux.  
__Il n'est pas jaloux sans cause,  
__mais il est cocu du tout,  
__et la, la, la, je ne l'o, je ne l'o, je ne l'ose dire,  
__La, la, la, je __le vous dirai._

"Haven't heard that one before, LeBeau," said Newkirk, who was lounging on his upper bunk, leaning on one elbow, cheating at solitaire. "Something new, is it?"

"My grandmother used to sing it," replied LeBeau. "It's years since I thought of it."

Kinch looked up from the coffee pot he was trying to repair; it was the one which normally sat on the desk in Colonel Hogan's quarters, the one which concealed the receiver for the bug in the Kommandant's office, and it had been out of order for several days. "It sounds pretty disreputable, for a grandmother," he observed.

LeBeau shrugged. "I had a pretty disreputable grandmother."

"Well, there's a surprise," murmured Newkirk.

The chef chuckled, and returned to his _tagine_, embarking on the second verse.

They were a musical bunch in Barracks 2; even Hogan, who didn't actually sing, had a good ear and a quite sophisticated understanding. So accustomed were they that at first nobody noticed LeBeau's performance was no longer a solo; it had gained a soft, wordless harmony. No, not just a harmony; as he reached the chorus, his accompanist slipped into perfect counterpoint. That got some attention, all right.

Hogan, who was sitting opposite Kinch waiting for a result, leaned back in his chair.

"Apparently someone else had a grandmother, too," he remarked casually.

All eyes turned to Carter, who was keeping watch at the barracks door. After a few seconds, he noticed how quiet it had gone, and turned around.

"I got two of them," he said. "That's the usual number, isn't it?"

"They aren't as disreputable as LeBeau's, by any chance?" asked Newkirk, leaning over the end of his bunk.

Carter gave the question some thought. "One of them's a Sunday school teacher," he offered doubtfully. "The other one used to write the home hints column for the local newspaper."

From the look on Newkirk's face, that wasn't a surprise, either.

"And which of those nice respectable ladies was responsible for acquainting her grandson with foreign ditties of a dubious nature?" he went on, with an air of mild curiosity.

"Well, neither of them, Newkirk," replied Carter, regarding him with pity. "They were singing it in Barracks 10 last night, that's where I heard it."

"You know, he's right," LeBeau put in. "You picked it up very well, if that was the first time you heard it, Carter."

"Wasn't that hard," said Carter with a shrug.

Newkirk's eyebrows went up. "Funny, I thought it was Barracks 9 did all the scandalous ones. Doyle's little lot usually sound like something Carter's grannies would approve of."

"Maybe they ran out of motets," murmured Kinch. "It's no good, Colonel, I'll have to rebuild it from scratch."

"How long will it take?" Hogan didn't look pleased.

"A day or so, if I can get the parts. That's going to be tricky, unless we can get into Hammelburg and borrow some from the Underground."

Hogan meditated on the possibility of achieving that. "Get in touch with them, see if they can supply what you need. I'll work on getting into town to pick the stuff up."

He was still working on it the following morning. A clandestine excursion was out of the question; Kommandant Klink and all his guards had been unusually watchful since LeBeau's recent phony escape attempt. It had been a successful diversion, keeping the Krauts well occupied while the rest of the team retrieved a code book which had been dropped down the well, but the resulting increase in vigilance was not exactly making things easy. And they'd used the dental and/or medical emergency dodge a few too many times already.

It always irked Hogan when he couldn't come up with a quick idea. He was in no pleasant temper after roll call. Nobody was singing this morning.

"Colonel Hogan..." The slightly breathless voice of Sergeant Schultz interrupted Hogan's reverie.

"Not now, Schultz," Hogan replied, still slightly distracted. "I'm thinking."

Schultz was accustomed to being fobbed off, but as usual he persisted. "Please, Colonel Hogan, Kommandant Klink wants to see you in his office. It's important."

"What's it about, Schultz?" asked Kinch.

Schultz's face contracted in bemusement. "Don't you already know? You usually know before he does."

"Well, the little bird that usually keeps us informed is out of order today," said Hogan. "So you'll have to do the chirping. What's up?"

"The Kommandant didn't tell me, but he had a phone call from General Burkhalter this morning."

The change in Hogan's expression, and the sudden alertness of his posture, were obvious to everyone but Schultz. Any call from Burkhalter was of interest. But it wouldn't do to let Schultz know.

"Well, I'm sorry," said Hogan, "but I can't always run over there whenever Klink's upset because the old meatball's giving him a hard time. He'll just have to learn to get over it by himself."

"No, Colonel Hogan, it isn't that at all," Schultz protested. "The old meatball...I mean the general had a favour to ask. I heard that much. But what it was, I do not know."

Hogan regarded him skeptically. "Okay, I guess I better go. But if this is just another of Klink's anxiety attacks, Schultz..."

He sauntered out of the barracks and strolled across the compound, with Schultz two steps behind. As he reached the Kommandantur, Hogan turned his head and grinned. "I don't think we'll need you, Schultz," he drawled. "Dismissed."

Taking the steps two at a time, he went inside, leaving Schultz to mutter a few uncomplimentary opinions about Americans in general, before wandering off to the sergeants' mess.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Hogan breezed into the Kommandant's office as if it were his own, tossing his cap onto the desk where it landed perfectly on top of the spiked helmet Klink kept there. _That's three points_, he told himself, adding to the score he'd been keeping ever since he'd made the first perfect throw, the day he'd arrived at Stalag 13.

"Yes, Hogan, come in, come in." There was a little air of excitement about Klink this morning. "Now, I've just been speaking with General Burkhalter."

"Really? Say, how is old Tubby, anyway?"

Klink wasn't letting anything get to him today. "You'll be pleased to know the General is very well, and keeping up a busy social schedule in addition to fulfilling his duties. In fact, he's planning a very special occasion tomorrow night, at the Hauserhof. Have you heard of the Italian prima donna, Claudia Valensizi? She will be performing at the Winter Relief Appeal fundraiser in Hammelburg, and General Burkhalter is arranging a reception for the lady. Unfortunately he's had some difficulty with the staffing arrangements, and as he knows some of your men have helped out in the past..."

This was absolutely perfect, and Hogan's mood lightened as he considered the possibilities. All the time he'd spent worrying about how to get someone into Hammelburg, and this had been waiting to drop into his lap.

He still had to play it cool. Too eager to accept, and Klink's natural mistrustful nature would snap into high gear. So Hogan leaned back in his chair, a look of boredom crossing his face. "No way, Kommandant."

"Hogan, it's not often I ask a favour..."

"And it's even less often we get anything in return. Sorry, Kommandant. The boys have better ways to waste their time."

Klink knew this game, and he tilted back as well. "Very well, Hogan. I'm willing to make it worth their while. What would it take to bring them around?"

The negotiation was on. Hogan narrowed his eyes, assessing precisely how outrageous his first demand should be.

"Three extra slices of white bread per man, per week," he said slowly, "two extra hours of electric light every night, and hot water in the showers every Sunday."

"One and a half extra slices of white bread per week, one hour of electric light, hot water for one hour, once a month," countered Klink.

"Two slices of white bread, an hour and a half of electric light, hot water on alternate Sundays, all afternoon."

"For two hours."

"Three hours."

"Very well, three hours."

Not a bad set of concessions, for agreeing to something Hogan had every intention of doing anyway. He straightened up, with a grin.

"Kommandant," he said cheerfully, "you got yourself a deal."


	2. Chapter 2

"Now, that is a fine figure of a woman," said Hogan.

"If you ask me, she's got enough for two fine figures," observed Newkirk, regarding the lady with an assessing eye. "I never quite fancy those Brunhilda types. They always have to have things their way."

"I wouldn't mind," murmured LeBeau. "She has beautiful eyes. I could lose myself in those eyes."

Newkirk snorted. "You don't even come up to her elbow, LeBeau."

"I'll stand on a chair."

"Incorrigible, that's what you are, mate." Newkirk shook his head, steadied the tray of drinks in his hand, and went off to circulate.

The lady whose ample charms they had just been discussing was the guest of honour for whom Burkhalter had thrown this whole elaborate shindig. Newkirk's reference to Brunhilda was not entirely inapt, although Claudia Valensizi was an Italian, rather than a German, soprano. She was stunning; tall, blonde, voluptuously built, with sleepy dark eyes and a mouth that seemed to be permanently smiling. If the way she filled out her low-cut crimson satin gown was anything to go by, she had excellent lung capacity.

Apparently she had something of a name in the world of opera, and the organisers of the fund-raising event for which she had been engaged were extremely pleased at having obtained her services. And as General Burkhalter's wife was a leading light in the local choral society, who were also on the concert programme, it was only natural he would have become involved in making the lady feel welcome.

She seemed to appreciate his efforts. She had spent the first part of the evening in close consultation with the general; then, when his wife started to take notice, she had switched without any hesitation to Colonel Klink, who responded with an equal mixture of flattered delight and sheer terror.

Hogan studied the prima donna with an expert eye. If only he could stay in the ballroom, and set about establishing an Italian connection, instead of having to meet the ubiquitous Max and get the receiver parts Kinch needed, this evening would probably be a lot more fun.

It appeared that the soprano had noticed his interest. She glanced at him once or twice, before excusing herself from Klink's company and making her way across the room towards Hogan. She walked very lightly; tall women often moved awkwardly, but Valensizi had grace.

"It's not often I meet an American these days," she said. Her speaking voice was beautifully modulated, and pitched quite low for a soprano. He was surprised at her accent, which was more New World than he had expected.

"Well, we don't socialise much," he replied, with a smile. "Kommandant Klink thinks it's bad for us to stay out late. Your English is very good."

"Four years of boarding school in England, five years with an opera company in Boston," she explained, returning the smile. "It's Colonel Hogan, no?"

"It's Colonel Hogan, yes," said Hogan.

"I've heard about you," the soprano murmured. "From a mutual friend - a Major Teppel, in Berlin."

Hogan knew that name, all right. Teppel was someone he'd had dealings with once before. But he wasn't yet prepared to give too much away. "I wouldn't exactly call him a friend," he replied.

She lowered her gaze, then glanced up at him through long dark eyelashes. LeBeau was right. She had beautiful eyes.

_Steady, boy!_

"Signorina." Burkhalter, of course. Even with his wife still in the room, he couldn't keep away. Valensizi's smile deepened, as she turned her attention towards the general. "I was wondering if we might have the pleasure of hearing you sing for us."

"Oh, please, General. I'm - what is it you say? Off duty. And the party's going so well. It would be a shame to spoil the atmosphere."

"My dear lady, you cannot deny us such a treat. I am sure there is not one person in this room who would not agree with me. Colonel Hogan, I'm sure you would be most eager to hear the signorina's voice."

Hogan would very much rather keep talking to her.

"Well, you know, General, I'm not so big on...yep, love to, can't wait." The look of astonishment the prima donna had turned on him was enough to change his mind real fast. Apparently nobody ever declined the chance of hearing what this lady could do.

"_Va bene_. Just one song, and only because Colonel Hogan is so very keen." Valensizi looked around the room. "But I will need my accompanist."

"Fräulein Moller? I think I saw her a few moments ago," said Burkhalter, also peering around. "Yes, there she is, talking with Captain Gruber."

"She doesn't seem to be enjoying his company," observed Hogan, taking note of the bored, sulky expression on the young woman's face. She was tall, though not in Valensizi's league; slender and elegant, with dark hair drawn back from her face into a neat chignon. Then his eyes travelled to Gruber. "But then, who does?"

From the half-smile that passed briefly across Burkhalter's face, it seemed he didn't much care for Gruber, either.

Valensizi smiled languidly, gave Hogan another of those unsettling upward glances, and moved away. Burkhalter followed, as if on a leash. He was going to be in big trouble when he got home.

Newkirk, completing his circuit of the reception room, stopped near Hogan, regarding the accompanist with an appreciative gleam in his eye. "Now, that's more to my liking," he said. "Shame about the sour face on her. Could turn milk just by looking, that one."

The accompanist, with an indifferent shrug, went to the grand piano that stood on a platform at one end of the room. She seated herself with deliberate precision, adopting a posture of almost textbook perfection; glanced at the soprano to confirm she was ready, and then began to play. A simple four-note phrase, repeating, the second note delayed each time.

La Valensizi, standing in front of the piano, raised her head, and swept a look around the room. The sleepy, good-natured look was gone, replaced by something else; fiery, demanding, enticing. She turned her gaze on Carter, who stopped in his tracks as if he'd just blundered into the spotlight from the guard tower at camp.

_L'amour est un oiseau rebelle  
__que nul ne peut apprivoiser,  
__et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle,  
__s'il lui convient de refuser._

She sang very softly, but there was an energy in her voice, a suggestion of strong, self-willed passion held in check. The result was almost intoxicating. Hogan had only a limited acquaintance with the operatic repertoire, but if this was a representative sample, he started thinking maybe he could find the time for a bit more; and a quick glance around the room suggested he wouldn't be the only one. Hardly anyone in the room, save LeBeau, understood the words, but there wasn't a man present who didn't get the meaning.

For the space of three minutes, nobody made a sound. The entire party was transported by the power of Valensizi's voice and personality. And as she finished, with a derisive, mocking warning - _Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi! _- a collective sigh seemed to generate spontaneously.

The lady bowed her head gravely, and sauntered off. Hogan waited for a moment, then looked around and caught LeBeau's eye.

"Can you handle the pickup from Max?" he murmured. "There's something I need to look into. Tell Newkirk to cover for you, if you're missed."

"No problem, _mon Colonel_," replied LeBeau, his dimple appearing and vanishing as he tried not to smile.

Hogan went towards the French doors, through which the soprano had gone out on to the balcony. On his way, he passed Carter, who was still standing as if transfixed, a dazed look in his eyes.

"You okay, Carter?" asked Hogan.

"Gosh," replied Carter. "That was...Gosh."

Hogan couldn't have expressed it any better. He laughed quietly, and moved on.

The balcony, overlooking the courtyard garden, was cool and peaceful after the crowded ballroom. Signorina Valensizi was standing by the balustrade, looking down at the rockery below. She still seemed to retain some of the essence of her performance; there was nothing indolent in the look she turned towards Hogan as he approached. But she didn't speak; she waited for him.

He was in no mood for beating about the bush. "Okay. How do you know Teppel, and how much did he tell you?"

Valensizi's eyelashes fell briefly, and she seemed to be considering her answer with care, before she replied.

"He told me quite a lot about you, Colonel," she said sweetly. "And I know him very well indeed. I know his real name is Robert Morrison, he is an American, and he was placed in Germany as a deep cover agent before the war. I know he has worked with you in the past. And I know he needs your help now, if he is to get out of Germany alive."

* * *

Notes: The _Habanera _sung by Claudia Valensizi comes from Bizet's opera _Carmen._

Major Teppel appeared in _Bad Day In Berlin_


	3. Chapter 3

There was a long moment of silence, as Hogan contemplated what Claudia Valensizi had just told him.

"Teppel was with the _Abwehr_," he said at last. "That organisation was dismantled a couple of months ago."

Valensizi sighed. "I am aware of the situation, Colonel Hogan. I've been in Berlin, it was all anyone talked about. That and the price of silk gloves," she added.

"So where does that leave Teppel?"

"In hiding," replied the prima donna. "But he's running out of time."

She glanced past him. "I don't think we can talk here. I don't suppose there's any chance you can come to my hotel room after the reception?"

"After the reception," observed Hogan, with evident regret, "I'll be heading straight back to Stalag 13. They saved a seat for me in the truck, I'd hate to miss my ride."

"_Che peccato_." Valensizi seemed equally regretful. "Then I shall have to take up Kommandant Klink's invitation to pay a visit. He seems very proud of the place. He kept telling me there has never been an escape."

"Yeah, he says that a lot. Sometimes I think he believes it." He was smiling faintly, but behind the pleasant expression his mind was working rapidly. If Morrison was still in Germany, it was a serious problem; the man not only knew about Stalag 13, he probably had inside knowledge of half the Allied intelligence network in the Third Reich. If he was captured, and broke under questioning, there would be hell to pay, for a whole lot of people. Besides, Hogan liked the man.

On the other hand, the prima donna could be lying. She could be working for the Gestapo. Morrison could already be in their hands.

Either way, Hogan knew he needed to find out more. "Okay, you call on the Kommandant, I'll try to come up with some way we can talk alone once you're there."

"From what the major told me, I have no doubt you will think of something...and that's why the soprano always sings before she dies." Valensizi's voice turned conventionally polite as she finished the sentence.

"Glad to have that cleared up," said Hogan meditatively. He turned his head, and added, "Oh, sorry, sir, were you looking for me?"

Klink peered at him suspiciously through his monocle. "Hogan, what are you doing out here?"

Hogan's gaze went back towards the soprano. "Just enjoying the view, Colonel."

She was looking over the garden again, and only the slightest twitch at the corner of her mouth gave any indication she'd heard him.

"You are not to leave the ballroom for any reason. I have my eye on you, Hogan. Remember, there is nothing that escapes my notice," said Klink, in his most hectoring manner.

"I know, sir. It's almost uncanny," replied Hogan. "Signorina, may I...?" He held his arm out towards the soprano.

"I will escort the signorina, Hogan," growled Klink.

Valensizi ceased her contemplation of the rockery, and turned her head, a slow smile developing across her face. "Gentlemen, please. No need for a disagreement." She moved towards Klink, and laid one delicate hand on his arm; but the smile was directed towards Hogan. He returned it, and fell in behind Klink as the Kommandant returned to the ballroom with his prize.

Newkirk looked across as they entered, and gave a tiny nod, before turning back to Schultz, with whom he was apparently engaged in some kind of complicated argument, by way of keeping the guard distracted. There was no sign of LeBeau; presumably he'd already slipped out to make the pick-up. Hogan, stopping only to help himself to a glass of champagne from Carter, went off to socialise.

Almost immediately he was accosted by one of the other guests, a lady no longer of tender years, disconcertingly robed in pink. Gertrude Linkmeyer was an old acquaintance; Burkhalter's only sister, the widow of a Russian Front hero (though rumour continued to whisper that her beloved Otto had in fact defected, in order to escape a marriage which was even more purgatorial than the Eastern winter), she had for some time had her eye on Colonel Klink as a replacement. In consequence there was no friendly spirit in her eye, as she regarded his attentions towards Claudia Valensizi.

"You know, I hear she used to visit one of those cabaret clubs in Berlin, " she remarked, with a touch of malice. "She even sang there some nights. I don't understand how any respectable woman could lower herself."

"That would have been something to see," murmured Hogan. He didn't like Gertrude; she was a commonplace little woman, with commonplace interests, an embittered spirit and an entirely misaligned scale of principles. But he knew how lonely she was, and how afraid of growing old alone, and although he wasn't above making use of the weaknesses of her character for his own ends, sometimes he felt sorry for her.

His remark passed her by; she was already off on another tack. "Do you have any idea how much they're paying her to sing at that concert? Of course, it's all confidential, but Bertha - Albert's wife, you know - she's on the organising committee, and she told me. Two thousand marks. For three songs. It's scandalous."

_Money well spent_, thought Hogan, remembering the lady's recent performance

"And she still gets paid, even if it doesn't go ahead," added Gertrude, pursing her lips in disapproval. "So if the choir has to pull out..."

She trailed off, the hint of a spiteful smile crossing her face. Apparently Gertrude wouldn't be disappointed to see the whole affair fall apart. Hogan didn't care one way or the other, and he was about to change the subject, when a sudden realisation came to him. No concert meant no excuse for Valensizi to stay in Hammelburg; and right now, assuming she was on the level, she was the only link to Morrison. This could be a problem.

"Is it likely?" he asked, disinterestedly.

Gertrude dropped her voice to a confidential whisper. "Well, apparently..."

She got no further. There was a scuffle, and a flurry of protest, from the main door, before one of Burkhalter's aides burst in, dragging LeBeau by the collar of his shirt. Klink, with a muttered exclamation, scurried across the room, and Hogan followed.

"I found him in the corridor, _Herr Kommandant_," said Captain Baumann.

LeBeau, forced by Baumann's grip on his collar to stand on tiptoes, turned a fierce glare on him. "I felt sick," he replied angrily. "It's hot in here, I needed some air."

"You'll feel more than sick, when we get back to Stalag 13," hissed Klink. Then as Burkhalter trundled towards them, with a tetchy query on his lips, the Kommandant's tone changed. "No, General, no problem at all."

"I hope not, Klink," replied Burkhalter acidly. "If anything happens to spoil the party, the next reception you will attend will be one where the dress code includes snow shoes." He let that sink in, before he moved away.

Klink fulminated. "I'll deal with you later, cockroach," he muttered. "Get back to work. Captain..."

LeBeau dropped as Baumann let go of him, and shot an apologetic look at Hogan. The captain, with a last suspicious glare, strode off after the Kommandant.

"Sorry, _mon Colonel_," LeBeau whispered. "I was halfway along the corridor when I saw him coming. I tried to hide behind one of the potted palms, but it didn't work. They don't feed their plants enough," he added disapprovingly. "They're very weedy."

"Never mind," said Hogan. "Did you make the pick-up?"

"Yes, but..."

"LeBeau, what were you doing out there?" The interruption came from Schultz, who had waited only until Klink was out of hearing. "You could have got into so much trouble. The next time you want to go for a walk, let me know so I can keep watch."

LeBeau glanced at Hogan, then pinned an apologetic smile to his lips. "Sorry, Schultz. I don't know what I was thinking."

"You didn't think at all. That's the trouble with you, LeBeau. One of these days you will not think once too often, and when I think about what the Kommandant will think - well, I can't bear to think about it." Schultz heaved a sigh, and wandered off, waylaying Carter on the way in the interests of bolstering his own spirits with a little refreshment.

"I dropped the package behind the palm tree," murmured LeBeau.

Hogan sighed. "Great. We've got no hope of getting out there now, Klink's going to be watching every move we make." He glanced around the ballroom, frowning slightly as he considered the problem; and as his eye fell on Claudia Valensizi, the solution came to him.

He didn't know yet whether he believed her. But regardless of whether she was on the level or working for the other side, he knew she wanted to gain his trust. Either way, she had everything to gain by helping them out with this little problem. He gave LeBeau a grin, and made his way to the lady's side.

"Signorina," he said mildly, "I need to ask a favour."


	4. Chapter 4

"I've got to hand it to her, Colonel. She found that parcel in the corridor for us, as cool as you like, even though both Gruber and that aide of Burkhalter's followed her out there, and then managed to slip it into Klink's coat pocket when he was leaving, without him noticing a thing. Brunhilda's clever, all right."

Newkirk, keeping watch at the barracks door, made this observation over his shoulder, in a tone suggesting he would rather have admitted that his dentist was kind to animals.

"Of course she is. She's perfect, in every way," replied LeBeau. "And don't call the woman I love Brunhilda."

"Here we go," muttered Newkirk, shaking his head.

It was two days since the reception, and so far Claudia Valensizi had made no appearance at Stalag 13, nor had anything more been heard. Hogan wasn't saying so, but he was getting anxious. Assuming she was on the level, they couldn't afford to waste any time getting in touch with Morrison.

"I thought you had a thing for that Marya," said Carter, gazing critically at LeBeau.

"_Oui, d'accord_. But she's not here, and Claudia is." As far as LeBeau was concerned, the whole matter was perfectly reasonable. But then, he had a girlfriend in almost every town between Strasbourg and St Malo.

"Okay, don't get carried away, LeBeau." Hogan cut into the conversation. "Sure, she helped us out, but that doesn't mean we take her at her word straight away. Just because she's gotten hold of some information about Morrison - and about us - doesn't mean he's the one who told her."

"She is a friend of his, Colonel," said Kinch. "Information coming back to London said they were seen around Berlin together a lot towards the end of last year. But in the last few weeks before the _Abwehr _was closed down, they seem to have cooled off. Maybe Morrison knew there was trouble coming, and didn't want her involved if anything happened, or..."

"Or maybe he decided she wasn't to be trusted," added Hogan. "Without speaking to him, there's no way of knowing."

"Well, he hasn't been seen since February, and our people haven't heard from him," Kinch concluded. "And that could mean anything. For all we know, the Gestapo got him, or he could be dead. Or he could be in hiding, like the lady told you."

Hogan nodded thoughtfully. "The trouble is, Morrison knows too much. It's not just his head that's on the chopping block. If he cracks under questioning, we'll be lined up right next to him, along with who knows how many other agents. And at the moment, our only lead on his whereabouts is Valensizi. So if and when she finally turns up here..."

"She will turn up, _mon Colonel_," said LeBeau confidently.

"Maybe. Gertrude Linkmeyer said something about the concert maybe not going ahead. No concert means no excuse for Brunhilda - sorry, LeBeau - for the signorina to hang around in Hammelburg. And that's going to make it very difficult for Morrison to contact us."

Newkirk interrupted at this point. "Staff car just pulled up at the gate. Burkhalter's, I think. Looks like he's got company."

Hogan came to the door and looked out. The guards were hurriedly opening the gate; it was never a smart move to keep Burkhalter waiting while documentation was checked. The car drove in, and came to a halt in front of the Kommandantur.

Klink came scurrying from his office, so fast he almost fell down the steps. He hesitated briefly, unsure whether to help the general or his companion to alight from the car. Fear won out over charm; and while he was greeting Burkhalter, Valensizi accepted the courteously offered assistance of the general's aide, Captain Baumann.

"Oh, great," murmured Hogan. "Why didn't she bring the whole general staff with her? How am I supposed to get her alone, with Klink, and Burkhalter, _and_ Baumann hanging around?"

"Don't forget Gruber, Colonel," murmured Newkirk, as Klink's adjutant made a tardy arrival. Then, at the look Hogan turned on him, he cleared his throat, and shut up.

"Well, you know, Colonel, it was never going to be easy," Kinch pointed out.

"True. But this could be our only chance to talk. She won't have any excuse to get back here, and the way things stand, I can't get to Hammelburg." He frowned, watching as Klink showed his visitors into the Kommandantur. "Is the coffee pot working yet?"

"I guess this is when we find out." But Kinch didn't look as if he had doubts.

"Klink's sent Gruber to the rightabout." Newkirk was still watching the performance. "And it looks like Baumann's been told to wait with the car. They don't look happy, either of 'em."

"She wouldn't look twice at them," insisted LeBeau, as he followed Hogan into the office. Kinch had already gone to set up the coffee pot; Newkirk, last in, closed the door and leaned his back against it.

"...before I go back to Berlin." Claudia Valensizi's voice came through the receiver, as clearly as if she was in the room with them. Kinch had done a good job with the rebuild.

"After the concert. I understand," said Klink.

"There may not be a concert, Klink." Burkhalter sounded even more disagreeable than usual. "The _Hammelburger Chorgemeinschaft_ may have to pull out. And without the choir, there will not be a full programme."

"The whole choir, to pull out? I don't understand."

"It's perfectly simple, Klink. Almost the entire male voice section is composed of members of the 7th Air Training Division, based in Hammelburg. Unfortunately, that division has been reassigned to active duty. I understand the officer in charge made some ill-advised comments regarding Field Marshall Goering's hunting skills."

"That's very...inconvenient," mumbled Klink.

"It's more than inconvenient," Burkhalter replied irritably. "It has put me in a most uncomfortable situation. I have had to endure some strongly worded objections to the Field Marshall's actions from a very important person."

"Someone more important than Field Marshall Goering?"

"My wife," said Burkhalter.

"Ah...I see." Klink's voice dropped substantially in pitch.

After a respectful pause, he went on. "Do they have any male voices left at all?"

"Two octogenarian tenors, and one _basso profondo_ with a speech impediment," said Claudia Valensizi. "Scarcely a balance against twenty-eight women."

"No, I can see that would be a problem."

"It is a problem I hope you can help me with, Klink," said Burkhalter. "How many of the guards here can hold a tune?"

In Hogan's quarters, there was a moment of astonished silence, before every man dissolved into helpless laughter. Klink also laughed, but more from nerves than amusement. "My guards, General? Oh, but that's ridiculous." He giggled again, realised Burkhalter wasn't joking, and sobered on the spot. "No, sir, none of them can sing."

"Anyone can sing," observed Valensizi.

"Not my men," said Klink flatly. "They just can't."

On the other side of the compound, a light had just dawned. "Maybe not," said Hogan. "But I know who can."

He looked at Kinch. "Have we cleared Lieutenant Doyle for security yet?"

"Sure, Colonel," replied Kinch, regarding him with a slightly puzzled frown. "But he doesn't really know about the whole set-up here yet."

"Well, he's about to find out. Newkirk, get over to Barracks 10, and tell Doyle to have his boys rehearsing outside their barracks in five minutes. And tell him I don't want to hear anything in Latin. I'll go and make sure they have an audience."

"Don't know if Doyle's going to listen to me, Colonel," said Newkirk doubtfully. "If he wants to know why, what do I tell him?"

Hogan raised one eyebrow. "Tell him it's an audition. Doyle's little ensemble is about to join the _Hammelburger Chorgemeinschaft_."

He headed for the door, but turned back. "And before you all start laughing again, maybe you should think about doing some singing practice instead. By tomorrow, you guys are going to be choristers, too."


	5. Chapter 5

"Not now, Hogan. Can't you see I have visitors?"

Klink uttered the words in the weary tone of a man who had said the same thing too many times to retain any expectation of being listened to.

Hogan looked around the office with a vaguely puzzled air, until his eye alighted on Burkhalter, sitting to one side of the desk. "Oh, sorry, General, I didn't see you there." Given Burkhalter's overall dimensions, it was a bit of a stretch; even if Klink accepted it at face value - which was unlikely - Burkhalter would know exactly what the remark was worth. It was all part of the game. "Signorina," Hogan added, with a slight nod, and a warm smile.

The prima donna, standing by the window, returned the smile, then went back to her appraisal of the compound. She was wearing blue today, of a particularly striking shade; against the drab walls of the Kommandant's office she looked as far from her natural environment as a bird of paradise down a coal mine.

"Hogan, whatever it is, it will have to wait," said Klink, in a fretful tone.

"I don't think it can wait, Kommandant," replied Hogan briskly. "It's an emergency. It could explode any minute. Metaphorically speaking," he added, as Klink jumped up from his chair, uttering what sounded suspiciously like a squeak of alarm. "Of course I don't mean a real explosion - where would we get the stuff for that? You won't even let us have Christmas crackers. And by the way, Colonel, that's another thing..."

"Hogan! Get to the point!"

"Sorry, sir. It's about the men in Barracks 10, Lieutenant Doyle's barracks," Hogan went on. "They're at it again."

"At what again, Klink?" demanded Burkhalter.

"General, I have no idea." Klink was getting more agitated by the moment. He had reservations about Doyle; the circumstances of his arrival at Stalag 13 didn't exactly recommend him to the management. "At what again, Hogan?"

Hogan raised his head, adopted an accusatory manner, and made his denunciation. "They're singing madrigals."

A choking noise escaped from the lady at the window.

"They're singing madrigals?" repeated Klink, dazedly. Whatever horrors he had imagined, that one hadn't made the short list.

"Yes, Colonel. Part-singing, what's more - only three-part so far, but once they get on to four-part - well, you know what that leads to, sir."

If Klink didn't know, he could well imagine. His monocle glittered with indignation. "We'll see about this. General, if you'll excuse me..."

"I will come with you, Klink." Burkhalter heaved his bulk from his chair. "I am interested to see how you will deal with an outbreak of music in the camp. It should be most entertaining. Signorina, would you care to watch?"

"I would be delighted, _Generale_," replied the prima donna, with a gleam of laughter in her eyes.

By the time they were halfway across the compound, it was clear Newkirk had got the message through, judging by the sound which greeted the approaching party. Doyle might only have a few voices at his disposal, but he obviously knew how to make the best of them. Hogan didn't have a lot of time for Doyle, but he had to admit, within his area of expertise the man could command discipline.

As instructed, he had set up his impromptu rehearsal outside the barracks. This would have been asking for trouble under normal circumstances, but Newkirk had obviously anticipated the reaction which could be expected from Sergeant Beckett and his collection of ruffians in Barracks 9. Hogan could see him loitering outside that hut, ready to step in if the stocky, loutish Beckett or any of his mates showed signs of interrupting the performance. So far, Beckett was holding back, watching with narrowed eyes. He had no idea what was going on, but he clearly didn't like it.

The song was one Hogan vaguely remembered hearing from within Barracks 10 during the last couple of weeks. Like most of the men - prisoners and guards alike - he hadn't paid much attention, writing it off as yet another in the series of straightlaced, respectable pieces with which Doyle interspersed his apparently endless repertoire of sacred works. But now he was struck by the lively, slightly wicked expressiveness of the performance, which told him this little piece of ephemera wasn't nearly as innocent as it seemed.

_Now is the month of maying, when merry lads are playing,  
Each with his bonny lass, upon the greeny grass..._

"Naughty!" murmured Claudia Valensizi, "but they sing very well." She cast an appraising eye on Doyle, as he directed his ensemble. He was a big man, heavily built, but surprisingly light in his movements.

As the song came to an end, Klink strode forward. "Lieutenant Doyle! What is the meaning of this?"

Doyle turned a bright-eyed look on the Kommandant. "You mean the words, Kommandant? Well, _barley-break_ is - how shall I put it - a traditional country pastime. I'm sure you're familiar with...no, perhaps not," he concluded meditatively.

"Don't be impertinent, Doyle. Who gave you permission...?"

"One moment, Klink."

The interruption came from Burkhalter. He had stayed in the background, watching and calculating, and one look told Hogan he wouldn't need to start putting ideas into the general's head. Burkhalter already had plenty of his own.

"That was most pleasant, Lieutenant," he said, in what with him passed for a genial tone.

Doyle bowed his head slightly, a faint smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "Thank you, General, very kind of you," he replied blandly.

"Is this the whole of your group?" Burkhalter went on, regarding the little group of ten men with interest.

"Good heavens, no. This is just the chamber ensemble." Doyle glanced at Hogan, the smile deepening into a full-blown smirk of patient condescension. "The full choir is twice this size." That was an outright lie; Hogan hoped Doyle had some idea how he was going to make good on it.

Burkhalter turned towards Valensizi. "Signorina, are you thinking...?"

"Indeed, _Generale_. How clever of you," said the soprano, in a tone of wondering admiration. Hogan suppressed a grin. "Perhaps we could hear something more, before you make any decisions?" she went on. "Kommandant, that would be allowable, no?"

The conflict of emotions on Klink's face was delightful to watch. His natural inclination to crush this outbreak of independent activity, and his natural distrust towards the self-possessed Doyle, came into almost audible collision with the overriding drive to maintain a comfortable position directly beneath Burkhalter's thumb. And Burkhalter's expression indicated that the signorina's suggestion met with his complete approval.

Doyle raised his eyebrows at Hogan, then turned back to his ensemble. He didn't say a word, but suddenly pointed one finger at Beckett, and gestured him towards the front row. Then his eyes moved to Newkirk, and he nodded. "Yes, we'll need you too, for this," he said.

He waited until a slightly puzzled Newkirk, and a deeply suspicious Beckett, had taken their places, before he spoke again. "'Jerusalem', gentlemen." He produced a small pipe from his pocket, played one clear note, and a soft humming came from the ensemble as each man found his pitch.

_And did those feet, in ancient time, walk upon England's mountains green..._

Hogan took a deep breath. That was dangerous. Even if Klink didn't understand quite what that song meant to the English prisoners, Burkhalter was smart enough to be aware of it. Clearly there was more to Tim Doyle than appeared at first glance.

Apart from Newkirk and Beckett, only three of Doyle's boys were English, but the others had obviously picked up on something of the feeling informing every phrase. There wasn't a prisoner looking on who didn't feel it. Even the guards were awed into silence.

There was a hush for several seconds at the end. Claudia Valensizi was the first to applaud, with a little gasp, and a cry of "_Bravo_!" Doyle, perfectly sure of himself, accepted the ovation as if it were his absolute right to expect it; and from the front row of the chorus, Newkirk sent Hogan a slightly embarrassed grin.

Hogan returned it. He had caught sight of the look of satisfaction on Burkhalter's face. If the general had understood the significance of the choice of song, he was willing to overlook it in the name of expediency. Terms still had to be negotiated, and that would take a bit of work; but essentially the deal was sealed. Doyle had made the perfect pitch, and the plan was already sold.

* * *

Notes:

"Now Is The Month Of Maying": Thomas Morley

"And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time" (also known as "Jerusalem"): words by William Blake, music by C. Hubert Parry. They close the Proms with this every year.


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm afraid it's out of the question."

Lieutenant Doyle, standing in front of the Kommandant's desk, gave his reply to General Burkhalter's request with calm condescension. It would have delighted Hogan, except that was how Doyle usually spoke to him, too. Still, it was the perfect attitude for the situation.

Hogan had found the opportunity, on the way to Klink's office, to give the lieutenant a few hurried words of instruction: "Don't agree to anything, until I negotiate terms." That was the general rule in these matters; the quickest way to arouse suspicion was to be too willing.

Of course, it was entirely possible Doyle would have dug his heels in anyway. There was plenty of evidence of his natural disinclination to give ground; the appalling state of incivility prevailing between Barracks 9 and 10 was proof enough. But Burkhalter already expected a refusal. He knew the rules of the game almost as well as Hogan did. He leaned back in Klink's chair, producing an ominous creaking sound.

"I am prepared to make it worth your while, Doyle," he said, regarding the lieutenant with a genial manner belied by the calculating look in his eyes. "What kind of inducement would it take for you to reconsider?"

"Try calling off the Blitz," murmured Doyle. The studied pleasantness dropped from his face, and an uncomfortable silence ensued.

It was time for Hogan to take a hand in the matter. "General, I have to protest. What you're asking amounts to collaboration with the enemy."

"Taking part in a concert for charitable purposes is hardly to be classed as collaboration, Hogan," observed Burkhalter dryly. "I would consider it an act of generosity. A helping hand extended to those less fortunate, who are facing a long, cold winter..."

"Yeah. I guess it's hard to imagine what that must be like, considering the luxury we're provided with," Hogan replied, tilting his head to one side and folding his arms. "You'll forgive us if we don't entirely sympathise."

"Hogan, you and your men have nothing to complain about," Klink put in. "You're comfortably housed, supplied with food at the expense of the German people..."

"Who are probably glad to be rid of it. There's so much sawdust in the bread, some of the men have got woodworm. And as for the barracks - you know, every time the wind blows from the east, Barracks 2 moves three feet closer to the coast. Which will be handy when we want to sail it across the Channel, we won't have so far to go, but..."

"Hogan! General, let me assure you..."

"Quiet, Klink." Burkhalter's eyes remained on Hogan, as he considered the state of play. "Hogan, if it were arranged to make the necessary repairs to the barracks, and to increase the prisoners' daily rations until the end of winter..."

Hogan held up one hand to discourage Doyle from rejecting the offer outright.

"Not enough, General," he said, after a moment of thought. "We also need extra blankets, a reliable supply of firewood, permission to cook in the barracks - "

"Denied."

"Granted."

Klink and Burkhalter spoke in the same breath. A moment later, Klink, with the air of a man forcing himself to swallow a dose of furniture polish, muttered, "Granted."

"I haven't finished," Hogan went on. He glanced at the Kommandant. "There's a couple of guys in the cooler. Dowland and Purcell. I want 'em out."

"Two of the men from Barracks 9, General," said Klink. "I had to take stern measures, they were singing...well, I'd rather not say what it was. But it was totally unacceptable, believe me."

Burkhalter turned a basilisk glare on him. "Singing what, Klink? Come now, we're all grown men here. Surely there is no need for this kind of prudishness."

Klink blinked, stammered, and baulked. Hogan decided to help him out.

"Wasn't it _Hitler has only got one_..."

"Hogan!"

Burkhalter frowned. "That is a very serious matter indeed, Hogan," he said repressively. "I'm afraid I must decline to..."

"Did you say Dowland and Purcell, Colonel?" interjected Doyle. He paused for a moment, a tiny crease between his eyebrows. "Must be a coincidence," he murmured at last. "General, those two men are absolutely essential to the men's choir. Without them the second tenors are far too weak."

"How many second tenors do you have?" asked Hogan curiously. He knew all about the men in question; they sang all right, but not the kind of material Doyle generally favoured.

"Two. Dowland and Purcell. Though I'm thinking of trying Byrd as well..." The little crease reappeared briefly. "You know, that is really quite odd," he added meditatively.

Burkhalter wasn't interested in oddities. "Klink, you will release those men at once. Well, Hogan, do we have an agreement?"

Hogan smirked. "Not up to me, General. This is Doyle's show."

Klink almost audibly ground his teeth, and Burkhalter pursed his lips. "Well, Lieutenant?"

"I'll have to look over the proposed programme, and you must allow me to reject any piece of music I consider unsuitable," replied Doyle after a period of thought. "And as for rehearsals..."

"I will make arrangements for you and your men to be taken to Hammelburg for two hours each afternoon until Saturday night, to rehearse with the _Chorgemeinschaft_. And in the meantime, I'm sure Colonel Klink will allow you to use the recreation hall."

"I'll need a piano, as well," added Doyle. "A decent one, if you don't mind."

Burkhalter regarded him with narrowed eyes for a moment. "Klink, arrange for a piano to be placed in the recreation hall immediately."

"But, General, where would I get...a piano, yes, right away, General." Klink's protest made a sharp turn in the direction of acquiescence at the look Burkhalter cast on him.

Doyle glanced at Hogan for permission before agreeing. "In that case, General, I'll see what I can do."

Hogan waited till they had been dismissed before he tackled Doyle on the second tenor question. "Dowland and Purcell? Seriously?"

"I never joke about music, sir," replied Doyle repressively.

"This is the same Purcell who taught the guards _The Ballad of Oyster Nan_? And wasn't it Dowland who wrote five new verses for _The Maiden's Lament_, and included your name in all of them?"

"Just because their repertoire is in doubtful taste, doesn't mean Beckett's lads can't sing. If I'm to expand my own ensemble, I'll need to work with what's available."

"Okay, Doyle. If you think you can handle 'em," sighed Hogan. "But I want some of my own guys in there as well."

"Not a problem, Colonel. Always happy to accommodate." Doyle slowed his steps, as he considered the potential offered. "Actually, I've been wanting Kinchloe for a while, a reliable bass is always useful. And you will let me have Carter, won't you? "

"Sure." Hogan had intended to send Kinch anyway. "If I want to include a couple of other guys…"

"Anyone at all from your barracks, Colonel. Yourself included."

Hogan grinned. "I'll pass, Doyle. Though I might come along for the ride. By the way, about that piano - you don't really need one, right?"

Doyle favoured him with precisely the same supercilious half-smile he'd used on Burkhalter. "My _dear_ Colonel," he replied coolly, "every home needs a piano."

Hogan laughed quietly, and headed for the barracks, but turned back with one more question. "Why Carter, particularly?"

"Oh, come now, sir," responded Doyle with a gentle chuckle. "I'm sure I don't have to explain that to you."

He sauntered off towards his own barracks. Hogan looked around the compound before going into Barracks 2. Captain Baumann was still standing beside Burkhalter's car. But he wasn't alone. Claudia Valensizi had joined him there, and there was a striking intimacy about the way they were conversing, Baumann leaning slightly forward in an almost possessive manner, the soprano listening to him with a faint smile. As Hogan watched, she lifted one elegantly gloved hand to brush something from Baumann's shoulder.

It might be harmless. Valensizi flirted with everyone. But all the same, Hogan filed the image away in his mental dossier on the prima donna. This lady was going to need watching very closely. And as she glanced his way, he came to the conclusion that this piece of surveillance was one he was going to enjoy.


	7. Chapter 7

"Of course Doyle wants Carter in his choir," observed LeBeau. "Who wouldn't?"

Hogan gave him an exasperated glance, but as LeBeau was looking at Carter with a slightly malicious grin, it went over his head.

"Well, comes in handy for us, anyway," said Newkirk. "And you know, Carter does have a bit of the choirboy look about him."

There was nothing of the choirboy in the glare he received from Carter. "That ain't funny. Colonel, can't Newkirk go instead?"

"Newkirk is going. And so are you, Carter." Hogan grinned at him. "By special request of the conductor." _Though I seem to be the only one who doesn't know why._

Carter scowled, and scuffed his feet. "Why's it have to be Doyle, anyway?"

"You got something against him?" Hogan directed the question at Carter, but it was meant for everyone, and it was Kinch who answered.

"He's too pleased with himself. Thinks he's above the rest of us. Don't get me wrong, if he wants to set himself up, it's fine by me. But I'm not itching to join his appreciation society."

"Seconded," put in Newkirk. "Though I will say for him, he knows how to get a man to sing."

"That's all I want him to do," replied Hogan. "That's what gets us into town, and keeps us in contact with Valensizi." He ignored a murmur of approval from LeBeau, and went on. "Hopefully, that will get us in touch with Morrison, wherever he is. And you guys get to sing. It's a win-win."

Newkirk leaned back in his chair. "Depends on what we have to sing, doesn't it? Who knows what kind of horrors that bunch of old ladies in Hammelburg have in store for us?"

"What makes you think they're old ladies, Newkirk?" said Carter, gazing at him wide-eyed.

"Because all the young ones have better things to do with their time," replied Newkirk confidently. "Isn't Burkhalter's missus in there? It'll be all friends of hers, you'll see. Ballads and folk songs, that's what we'll get."

"Nothing wrong with folk songs," muttered Carter under his breath, but nobody was listening.

"Don't forget, Doyle gets to approve the programme," remarked Kinch.

"Oh, that makes it much better." Newkirk held up one finger, like some ancient seer on the point of revealing some prospective calamity. "He'll have us singing some bleedin' oratorio or other. I'd bet my life on it."

A chorus of protest broke out, but Hogan interrupted ruthlessly. "Okay, cut it out. Whatever Doyle tells you to do, you'll do it. Firstly because we need this to work, and secondly because Doyle outranks every one of you. So whether he gives you an oratorio, or barbershop harmonies, or the entire score of _Rose Marie_, you'll sing it."

He spoke more forcefully than usual, at least in part because he knew Doyle wasn't a general favourite with the other prisoners. The fact was, Hogan didn't like him either. It was rare for officers to be sent to Stalag 13; Doyle was said to have earned his relocation here as punishment for his part in covering up a mass escape from his previous place of incarceration. Hogan had no reason to doubt it, but it didn't make the man any less of a pompous, self-satisfied jerk.

By mid-afternoon, a piano had been found in Hammelburg, a dilapidated upright apparently rescued from some dark corner of the Hotel Hauserhof. The instrument was delivered to Stalag 13, and with a great deal of fuss, many unconstructive and contradictory suggestions from everyone concerned, and much anxious hovering on Doyle's part, it was manhandled off the delivery lorry, and brought safely into the recreation hall.

It wasn't a prepossessing instrument. The varnish was cracked, the keys yellow and caked with dirt, and a general air of neglect, dust and spider infestation hung around it.

"Schultz, I said a _decent_ piano," mumbled the Kommandant, regarding the thing with horror.

"_Herr Kommandant_, I am sorry. It was the only one I could get." Schultz twiddled his fingers together apologetically.

"But…but it's a wreck," Klink stuttered. "It's an utter disgrace. It's…"

"It's beautiful." The interruption came from Doyle, who had lifted the lid with an almost reverent hand. "Perfectly beautiful."

He ran his fingers across the keys, then played a few chords, very softly. "But it does need tuning," he added. "I don't suppose you thought to get the appropriate tools, Schultz? Ah, well, one must work within the constraints of the situation. Does anyone have a socket wrench I can borrow?"

He turned everyone out while he carried out the necessary work; and for some time only the disturbing sounds of a piano in torment could be heard from within the hut. After a while Doyle emerged, slightly dusty but perfectly self-possessed.

"Carter, old chap," he said, "I could use some help."

The discordant noises continued for a short time after Carter, looking vaguely alarmed, had followed Doyle back into the hall. "Sounds like they're rebuilding it from scratch," observed Kinch dryly.

A brief silence fell; then from within the walls, a tune could be heard, slightly tinny, slightly tinkly, but beautifully played.

"_Barbara Allen_," said Newkirk. "Not exactly Doyle's cup of tea, I'd have thought." He listened for a moment. "Sounds all right though, doesn't it?"

Hogan was in full agreement. He went quietly into the hall, waving the others back. It was Doyle who was playing, apparently improvising around the old familiar melody, while Carter leaned on the top of the instrument, listening.

"Still doesn't sound right," he murmured, as Hogan, unconsciously going on tiptoe, crossed the floor.

"Well, I'm afraid it's as close as I can get with the tools available," replied Doyle, almost apologetically. He had removed his jacket, and rolled up his sleeves, and looked about as unbuttoned as anyone at Stalag 13 had ever seen him. "The strings won't stand much more. The relative pitch is right, isn't it? Then that will have to do."

He played another few chords, then began what seemed a simple enough tune with one hand, gradually adding more parts until the whole thing seemed almost insanely convoluted.

"If it makes you feel any better, Carter," he added, pausing at a cadence, "we won't be using it for rehearsal."

"Then what's it for...sir?" asked Carter, with a puzzled frown.

Doyle continued his performance, and didn't answer the question. "Thanks, old man," he said. "Rehearsal in here at seven this evening."

Hogan nodded in reply to Carter's querying look, and after a moment Carter left. Doyle kept playing, still very softly, to the end of the piece.

"You know, Colonel," he said, "it's been two years. You never quite lose it, but I'm dreadfully out of practice."

"Yeah, it sounds like it," replied Hogan, gazing at him critically. This was a side of Doyle nobody had seen before. He was thinking over what Doyle had said earlier: _Every home needs a piano_...

From the look on the lieutenant's face, as his fingertips lingered over the keys for a moment, those two years had been very long indeed.

Then he straightened up, his customary self-assurance dropping over him like a cloak. "It's extraordinary, you know. One person in ten thousand, that's what they say. What are the odds I'd find one of them here? And he hasn't a clue. What I wouldn't do to have that kind of..."

He smiled at the look on Hogan's face. "You really don't know, do you? I'm talking about Carter. He's got..."

"Perfect pitch." Hogan finished the sentence with him. It was obvious, now.

Doyle began reassembling the piano, hiding the internal mechanism from sight. "Any particular instructions, Colonel?"

"You're going into Hammelburg tomorrow afternoon," replied Hogan, helping to fit the front panel over the strings. "I'll be coming along to supervise the men. There will be guards, as well. At some stage I'll need to get a few words in private with Brunhilda - I mean, Signorina Valensizi." That nickname was going to stick. "You may have to distract the guards. And keep your eyes open. I'm not sure I trust the soprano, she seems very cosy with Burkhalter's aide. If she talks to him, I want to know about it. Did Klink get you the list of songs for the programme?"

"He did. I've rejected most of it," replied Doyle smugly. "We're now working on the basis of three songs with the town choir, plus a few on our own."

"Can you manage that, in three days?"

Doyle gave him a sideways look, and the smirk on his face realigned into a genuine grin. "I daresay we'll find out." Then he laughed aloud. "Trust me, sir. I'll get them into shape, all right."

He closed the lid of his piano, and strolled out into the light, with the air of a peer of the realm taking a promenade around his estate. But Hogan thought he had a handle on Doyle now. And if Doyle reckoned he could make an ensemble in three days, Hogan had no doubt that three days would produce the best ensemble this prison camp could offer.

As long as they didn't lose sight of the objective, this operation could turn out to be fun.


	8. Chapter 8

"...and if you don't start paying attention, you will all spend the next three days singing _My Bonny Lass, She Smileth_, and nothing else."

Lieutenant Doyle took a deep breath, almost the first one he'd taken since his diatribe had commenced. "Now," he went on, "this is what we will do. Walford, go and stand next to Davies, where you're supposed to be. Lovelock, please stop telling everyone else what to do. That's my job. And as for you, Cage, could you possibly manage to stay quiet for five minutes? Even four and a half minutes would do. I don't want to put too much pressure on you."

Almost eleven o'clock, and well past lights out, and the Stalag 13 Male Voice Choir was still in rehearsal. Hogan slipped quietly into the recreation hall, where a sleepy Schultz was on guard. He greeted Hogan with a look of resignation, and stifled a yawn.

Doyle waited some time for the men to settle down. "Whenever you're ready," he said at length, and instant silence fell, though Newkirk rolled his eyes and LeBeau suppressed a snigger. The conductor turned an icy glare on them.

"I might have to separate you two," he observed coldly. "Now, let's try again, from bar 13, please. What's the note, Carter?"

Carter, looking embarrassed, cleared his throat, and hummed softly; other voices picked it up, firstly unison, then harmony. Doyle held up his hand, glanced around to make sure he had everyone's attention, then gave them one up-beat to start.

It took a few seconds for Hogan to realise they were singing animal noises: dogs, cats and birds. He sat down on the nearest chair, shaking with laughter. He'd never heard anything like it, and it sure wasn't his style of music, but he had a feeling it was going to bring the house down on the night.

At the end of the song, Doyle dismissed his ensemble. "Get some sleep, and be back here at ten o'clock tomorrow morning," he said. "And you will know the words to all those songs by then. If some of you could find a few extra consonants, it wouldn't hurt, either." He fixed a stern eye on Newkirk, who blinked at him, apparently quite unimpressed.

"Dunno wot 'e's goin' on abaht," he murmured to LeBeau in a stage whisper. "Ain't nuffink wrong wiv 'ow I talk, right, Louis?"

"You speak perfectly, _mon pote_," replied LeBeau, straight-faced.

"Are those two likely to be trouble?" asked Hogan quietly, as Doyle came to report.

"LeBeau and Newkirk? Nothing I can't handle, Colonel. A bit of fooling around doesn't hurt, at the appropriate time. It keeps everyone in a good temper. They know where the line is, they won't cross it."

Hogan glanced at the surly-looking Beckett as he slouched off. "What about him?"

"Well, he doesn't like me," admitted Doyle.

"Why'd you pick him?"

"We're doing a lot of songs my men have already been working on. I drafted in four of Beckett's lads, thinking they'd probably pick up their parts easily. They've been listening to us rehearse for the last four months, some of it must have sunk in. And I brought him along to keep them in order, if only he'll cooperate."

Hogan frowned slightly, as he considered the problem. "Beckett knows what's at stake here. He's not going to do anything to foul up the mission, but he might make things difficult for you. He's not the type to just take orders, unless they come from an officer he respects. I can talk to him, if you want, but it's probably better if you can come to some agreement without my interference." He meditated some more, then added, "Maybe you should consult him about the songs."

"Oh, dear God, no." The expression of horror on Doyle's face would not have been inappropriate if he'd just been instructed to allow Himmler to marry his only sister. "Colonel, I understand the urgency of the situation, but every man has his limits. And mine don't extend as far as George Formby."

"Come on, Doyle. He's got to know something that you can put up with."

"I daresay." But Doyle did not sound as if he thought it at all likely.

His mood seemed to have lightened by the following afternoon, and when the trucks arrived to transport the ensemble to Hammelburg, he took his place with his customary complacency. Before they'd travelled two miles, the men had started singing the cats-and-dogs chorus from the night before, but rather more raucously. From there, they proceeded to _Clementine_, thence to _Roll Out The Barrel_, and from there to something which caused Schultz to turn to Hogan, riding up front next to him, with a vaguely puzzled look.

"Colonel Hogan, what does that mean?"

"Well, Schultz," replied Hogan, "when you're a little older, we'll sit down and have a chat, and maybe I'll explain it then."

The concert hall was easily identifiable from a distance still wrapped in a protective cocoon of scaffolding. Repairs to bomb-damaged buildings took time these days, and experts in Greek Revival style were thin on the ground, so the restoration of the exterior was likely to take some time.

As Doyle dismounted from the truck, Hogan took the opportunity for a quick consultation. "Did you get something sorted out with Beckett?"

"We reached an agreement," replied Doyle. "He agreed to _Linden Lea, _I let him have _Run Rabbit Run__._ It's going to be a very interesting programme."

The voice of Claudia Valensizi greeted them as they reached the auditorium, and Doyle stopped in his tracks, transfixed. She was singing very quietly, but even from the back of the hall, every note was as clear as if she were standing only inches away. Below the stage, the members of the _Chorgemeinschaft _sat waiting for their turn; two dozen or so women and a couple of very old men. Captain Baumann, Burkhalter's aide, was also there, in the third row of the stalls. Apparently he'd been awarded the job of stage manager; it served him right.

The music ended abruptly in a flurry of angry recriminations, apparently generated by the sound of hammering coming from somewhere behind the gallery. Valensizi, flinging up her hands, broke into a shrill torrent of furious Italian, directed at the hapless Baumann. As he clearly had no idea what she was saying, she glared at him, and enunciated in a clear, cold voice, "I cannot work under these conditions."

Then she swung round and swept offstage, followed more sedately by her accompanist, the sulky-looking Fräulein Moller.

"She's beautiful when she's angry," murmured LeBeau, to which Newkirk uttered a derisive cackle.

Hogan, hands in pockets, a smirk on his face, glanced at Baumann. "Temperamental, these prima donnas," he remarked casually.

Baumann sighed. "There is a workman somewhere in the building. She finds it distracting, but every time I try to find him, he has moved somewhere else. I..." He broke off, realising who he was speaking to. "You'd better have your men get ready," he finished curtly. "Enough time has been wasted."

He strode off to the backstage entrance, as the hammering started up again. Hogan turned to Doyle. "You heard the man," he said cheerfully. "I guess that mean-looking old lady is the boss of the choir. Go and turn on the charm."

Doyle glowered at him, then donned an amiable smile as he turned to meet the elderly woman who appeared to be in charge of the _Chorgemeinschaft_; while Hogan, waiting only to make sure he wasn't being observed, slipped out into the foyer, and took the stairs to the gallery. The hammering had begun again; he listened for a moment, then followed the sound. It wasn't coming from inside the auditorium, but from the other side of a small, inconspicuous door marked "_Kein Durchgang!_" in faded lettering. Passing through, he found himself in a narrow, grimy passage, its length punctuated by a series of iron stairs and ladders which gave access to the ceiling space above the hall. The noise was much louder here; he paused again, then ascended one of the ladders. At the top, he found who he was looking for: a big, solidly built man in cap and overalls, working stolidly on one of the roof trusses.

He looked over his shoulder as Hogan appeared. "There's always so much maintenance needed in these old buildings," he remarked. "It's a full-time job, it never stops."

"And nobody ever queries a guy with a hammer in his hand," added Hogan.

The workman laughed quietly. "Hogan, you've got no idea how glad I am to see you."

Hogan relaxed into a grin. "Probably just about as glad as I am, Morrison," he replied.

* * *

Notes:

The animal song is _Contraponto Bestiale_, composed by Adriano Banchieri (1567-1634)

George Formby Jr (1904-1961) was a popular English music hall performer.


	9. Chapter 9

"First rule of espionage, Hogan. Don't get close to anyone. Don't get personal. I managed to stick to it for ten years. That's not bad."

From their position in the rafters, Hogan and Morrison had a clear view down onto the stage and the stalls, without being seen themselves.

"That's why I had to let her go," Morrison went on. "I didn't want to - ten years is a long time for a man to be on his own, and she's one hell of a woman - but once you get involved, you've got a weakness. It got too risky, for both of us. So I made the break."

"Does she know you're here?" asked Hogan. He was watching Morrison closely. The man looked a lot older than the last time they'd met; unshaven, in shabby overalls, he bore little external resemblance to the well-groomed Major Teppel who had taken Hogan and his men to Berlin, eighteen months earlier. But there was no mistaking that face; Morrison's features were too strong to be overlooked.

He shook his head. "I thought she might work it out. It was an old joke we had. I fixed the door of her apartment for her, and she said even though I had no musical talent, at least I could keep time with a hammer."

He fell silent, gazing down at the stage, where the scary old lady from the _Chorgemeinschaft _was marshalling her forces. There was no sign of either Claudia Valensizi or her accompanist, although Baumann had returned. Langenscheidt, with Private Gluck, was standing guard in the right-hand aisle, Private Telemann was on the left. Schultz must be somewhere at the back of the hall, where Hogan couldn't see him.

"How'd she get involved in this?" said Hogan.

Morrison smiled slightly. "I had word from contacts within the Gestapo that things were happening, and it was time to get out. I couldn't risk an investigation. Had an escape plan, of course." He glanced at Hogan. "But there was this one guy - you remember Metzger, Colonel Braun's aide? He'd been watching me ever since that business at the Hotel Berlin, and as soon as he heard the _Abwehr _was being shut down, he jumped the gun, and came to advise me of it personally. It didn't exactly go as he'd planned. Lucky for me, I was a better shot than him. He only plugged me in the shoulder. I got him where it counted."

"That must have made things tricky for you."

"You're not kidding. I don't mind telling you, Hogan, I didn't think I was going to make it. I knew if I turned up at the hospital, I'd be arrested before they even got the bullet out. I'd lost a lot of blood, got a bit lightheaded, and next thing I knew I was at Claudia's door."

He broke off, as the combined choirs of the town of Hammelburg and Stalag 13 began to sing, under the ferocious, but apparently ineffective, direction of the old lady. Her idea of conducting seemed to consist entirely of making vigorous, wildly irregular up-and-down beats with both hands. The singers were struggling to keep together, and Hogan grinned at the pained expression on Doyle's face as he stood at the back, singing along with the baritones. Morrison shook his head, and laughed quietly, then went on.

"She didn't ask any questions, just took me in, stopped the bleeding, found a surgeon who could be trusted to keep his mouth shut. She saved my life. And when they came to question her - they knew we'd been pretty close - she knew nothing. I hid out with friends until I was strong enough to make the trip here. I knew my best chance was if I could get in touch with you."

"And the signorina offered to make the approach," Hogan finished.

"Right." Morrison looked at him again. "I know what you're thinking, Hogan. Probably just the same as I'd think, if you came to me with the same story. But the thing is, I was delirious for a couple of days, and I let a lot of things slip. By the time I came out of it, there wasn't much she didn't know about me. She could have handed me over to them any time, if she'd wanted to. You can take my word for it. She can be trusted."

His keen expression didn't soften, as Claudia Valensizi came back into the hall, shadowed again by Fräulein Moller. "Not sure about her accompanist, though. Seems to me wherever Claudia goes, that little ray of sunshine follows her."

"Keeping her under observation," murmured Hogan. "Which could make things difficult. If she's Gestapo, the last thing we want is her hanging round while we're trying to get you out."

He winced at the sound coming from the stage; half the sopranos had gone flat, and the tenors had apparently gone off into a different key entirely, while the basses seemed to be making it up as they went along and the altos had given up altogether. "I don't think Doyle's going to stand for much of that," observed Hogan.

"I'm damned sure Claudia won't," said Morrison. "You better get back, before you're missed. You'll find me around the building any time."

"Keep out of sight." Hogan was gazing down towards the side aisle. "Schultz is on guard duty while we're here, he might recognise you."

"I'll be careful. And if you get a chance, Hogan, let her know I'm okay." Morrison turned back to his work. Then, at the look Hogan gave him, he shrugged, "Might as well do the job properly, while I'm here."

Hogan descended to the lobby. As he went back into the auditorium, Schultz appeared at his elbow.

"Where have you been, Colonel Hogan?" he demanded truculently. "You are not supposed to go out of my sight. Oh, you will get me into trouble. "

"Sorry, Schultz," replied Hogan breezily. "You know how it is, with these old buildings, I had to go looking in the basement to find the men's room. And then I got lost on the way back. I wouldn't go down there, if I were you," he added. "It's dark and creepy."

Schultz wasn't pacified. "At least you should let me know where you are going, so I can send Langenscheidt with you. There are rules, Colonel Hogan."

"Look, Schultz, I'm pretty darn sure there's nothing in the regulations that says a colonel has to be accompanied to the latrine. I wouldn't like it, and I can tell you now, Langenscheidt wouldn't be thrilled at the prospect, either. You know how easily embarrassed he is." Hogan grinned, and passed on into the hall.

The choirs were still not finding common ground. It wasn't just Doyle who was suffering. Kinch was wearing the same expression he developed in response to any particularly unpleasant atmospheric interference on the radio, and Carter, judging by the way he kept glancing at the nearest escape routes, was seriously contemplating making a run for it, even if it got him shot. A couple of the altos appeared truly miserable, and in the stalls, Valensizi, eyes closed, the fingers of one hand resting just above one ear, seemed to be in physical pain. Listening to the screeching coming from the soprano section, Hogan could hardly blame her.

He made a quick mental bet with himself as to who would break out first, and within seconds, he won the wager.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, woman!" Doyle, pushing his way between Walford and Davies, burst out of the ensemble. "Stop flapping your hands about, that's not going to get them onto the note."

It should have been enough to draw swift repressive action from the guards, but they were as relieved as everyone else; Telemann actually suppressed a cheer. Doyle ignored it, and took his place at the front of the stage, waving the erstwhile director away.

"Now," he said in a tone of grave displeasure, "who can tell me what a discord is?"

A few seconds of silence ensued, then Newkirk held up his hand. "I think the technical definition, sir, is _bloody awful_."

"Quite correct, Newkirk." Doyle swept a look of disdain across the entire ensemble. "So stop doing it, all of you. From the beginning, please."

As he took charge, Hogan settled into the seat next to Valensizi. Fräulein Moller was sitting two rows behind, not quite close enough to overhear, but too close for it to be chance. Morrison was right; she was keeping the prima donna under surveillance.

Neither Hogan nor Valensizi spoke, as they watched Doyle take charge of the rehearsal. It was still bad, but at least he knew what he was doing.

Valensizi glanced at Hogan. "Is he well?" she asked, so quietly that Hogan would have missed it, if he hadn't been waiting her to speak. Obviously she had recognised Morrison's hammering skills, but hadn't dared investigate herself.

"Looks okay," he replied softly, and just for a moment, everything she couldn't say out loud was written on her face. "But the sooner we get him out of here, the better."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Not yet. Normally I'd just sneak him back to camp with the rest of the men, and hide him there till we could get him safely to England, but..." He broke off, frowning. Morrison was too memorable. It wasn't just Schultz who might remember the _Abwehr_ major from Berlin; Klink knew him, too. And if Fräulein Moller was a Gestapo plant as they suspected, she probably had a description of the fugitive as well. Even getting the chance to talk to Morrison again was going to be hard work.

"I'll figure something out," Hogan finished at length. It sounded lame, but his train of thought was picking up steam. He'd already formed a plan to distract the accompanist, and with a bit of luck, the next rehearsal might see the guards fully occupied, too.


	10. Chapter 10

"How many rehearsals did you say we were getting before the night?" asked Newkirk, leaning on the top of the ancient piano.

"We'll have enough," replied Doyle, "and be careful, old chap, the frame's not as strong as you think."

Newkirk shifted his weight back a little, eliciting a distinct cracking noise. "Sorry," he murmured.

Immediately after the prisoners had returned from town, Hogan had convened a meeting in the recreation hall, ostensibly for a little extra work on a difficult tenor line. In fact little singing was taking place, though every so often LeBeau, keeping watch at the door, would give warning of an approaching guard, upon which _Tanzen und Springen, Singen und Klingen_ would take over from the strategy conference.

"Are they going to be ready?" Hogan asked. "Not that it matters much if they're not."

Doyle looked slightly offended. "They'll do," he said shortly. Then, with reluctant honesty, he added, "They won't be perfect, but ..."

Hogan sighed. "Let's not forget what we're doing this for. It doesn't have to be perfect."

"But it doesn't _not_ have to be, right?" put in Carter, slightly anxious.

"I've got some bad news about that," replied Hogan, almost apologetic for once. "Schultz got pretty edgy today when he didn't know where I was. I need to be able to get together with Morrison, without the guards noticing. For that to happen, they need to be too busy with something else to pay attention to me. Now, if Doyle were to decide he needed a few extra voices..." He let the rest of the idea hang there.

"Colonel, you can't be serious," said Kinch, after a moment of stunned silence. "You mean you want the guards to join the choir?"

"Can you think of a better way to keep them gainfully occupied?"

"But they can't sing." LeBeau looked as appalled as if he'd been asked to let the cook from the sergeants' mess help him prepare dinner for the French government in exile.

Newkirk obviously agreed with him. "Colonel, far be it from me to throw a spanner in the works, but if you think..."

Doyle cut into the debate. "Will it be the same four guards?" He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "It should be manageable, at least for the combined choir songs, which is all we're rehearsing in town. Actually, Langenscheidt's not bad - low-range tenor, if we put him between Carter and Dowland he'll cope. Gluck sings baritone, loses pitch very easily, but he's not loud, so he won't be heard. Telemann's a natural counter-tenor, he'll be fine. As for Schultz... Why are you all looking like that? Some people collect stamps. It's no different, is it?"

"If you say so, Doyle," murmured Hogan. "So, no problem then?"

"With respect, sir, of course it's a problem." With an effort, Doyle restrained his impatience. "But if I can cope with those sopranos - my dear man, have you _heard _Mrs Burkhalter? She could moonlight as an air raid siren." He shook his head gravely. "It's no wonder the general works such long hours."

"What about Schultz, then?" asked Newkirk curiously, but Doyle just smirked, and turned back to the piano.

"Okay, so that's the guards taken care of," said Hogan. "Now all we have to do is give Fräulein Moller something to think about, other than keeping Valensizi under surveillance. And that, Newkirk, is where you come in. You can do without him, right, Doyle?"

"Absolutely," replied Doyle without hesitation, to Newkirk's obvious annoyance.

"Didn't think I was that bad," he muttered.

Carter snickered, and Newkirk turned on him at once. "What's that for, Carter?"

"Nothing," replied Carter innocently. "Just you're always late on your entries."

"No, I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm not."

"You just are."

Hogan interrupted this promising line of discussion. "That'll do. Newkirk, I've got a very important job for you. It's right up your alley. You'll love it."

Newkirk gave Carter a little shove. "No, I'm not," he muttered. Then, very quickly, he added, "What's that, then, Colonel?"

"Oh, it's a good one," replied Hogan with a smirk. "You get to make friends with the accompanist."

Newkirk didn't appear to welcome the assignment. "What, little Miss Sweetness-and-Light? With respect, Colonel, I'll pass. A man could get frostbite messing about with that little darling."

"War's a dangerous business, Newkirk," Hogan pointed out. "Everyone has to take a few risks."

"I understand that, sir," said Newkirk. "But..."

"Newkirk, you'll chat up the _Fräulein_, and that's an order."

For a few seconds Newkirk teetered on the brink of refusal. "All right," he growled at last. "I'll do it. But if I don't get recommended for the Victoria Cross..."

"I'll write to Churchill about it," said Hogan with a grin. "Now..."

"Schultz is coming!" hissed LeBeau.

Doyle played a chord. "_Men of Harlech_, gentlemen." Newkirk uttered a groan, but it was more for form's sake than anything. The Welsh side of him couldn't fail to be stirred by that piece.

By the time Schultz got there, they were well away on it. Schultz, brought up short, hesitated, then tiptoed across the floor towards Hogan, who was conducting with great spirit and enthusiasm, since Doyle was fully occupied with the accompaniment.

"Well, Schultz, what do you think?" asked Hogan, at the end

Schultz sighed. "I think your side has all the good songs. But, Colonel Hogan, you are not supposed to be in here without supervision."

"We're not in here without supervision," replied Hogan reasonably. "Doyle's in charge."

"Doyle is not one of us. He is one of you. You have to have one of us."

"That's okay. We've got one of you, now. And frankly, Schultz, I'm a little disappointed it took you so long to get here. You're falling down on the job. You need to lift your game, otherwise we're going to have take steps." Hogan kept a straight face, but his eyes were dancing. "And even though you're here now, who's to say you won't wander off again any minute. It's not good enough, Schultz. I want your word of honour you won't stir from here till lights out."

Schultz's face folded into a suspicious glower. "You think I'm stupid, don't you? You make a big deal about me staying here, to make me think you want me to leave. But it's just a trick, to convince me that I should stay, when what you really want is for me to think you want me to...wait a minute. I lost track."

"It's perfectly simple, Schultz," said Newkirk, folding his arms. "The colonel tells you to stay, which makes you think he actually wants you to leave. So the clever thing to do is to stay."

"Except it's a double play," added Kinch. "Because he knows you'll be suspicious, and you know he knows. You're not dumb enough to fall for that. The colonel obviously wants you to stay. So you're definitely going to leave."

"Unless _le Colonel_ thought of that, too." LeBeau took up the argument. "Which would mean he was pretending he wanted you to stay, to make you think he wanted you to leave, in order to get you to stay, but what he really wants is for you to leave."

"Boy, you're smart, Schultz," said Carter, his eyes wide with admiration. "I would never have gotten that worked out."

"Well, Schultz, what's it going to be?" Hogan finished up.

Schultz's gaze moved around the room, starting with Hogan, travelling to each of his men, before returning to the colonel.

"I will stay here," he pronounced at last.

Hogan's brow contracted; he looked worried. "You sure? Word of honour?"

"Word of honour." Schultz spoke more firmly. "I do not leave this building until lights out. And whether you like it or not, that is a promise."

"Oh, well, if you insist, Schultz," sighed Hogan. "Okay, Doyle, what's next?"

"Nothing," said Doyle. "We've finished for now."

"Really? Okay, men, fall out." As his men, in a burst of conversation, left the recreation hall, Hogan turned a look of surprised reproof on the sergeant of the guard. "Hold it, Schultz. Where d'you think you're going?"

Schultz, following in Doyle's wake, came to a halt. "You just said you were finished."

"So? You just gave me your word of honour. And if I can't trust your word, Schultz, then who can I trust?" With a smirk, and a quirk of the eyebrows, Hogan sauntered off after the others, leaving Schultz on his own in the dusty hall.

"It's true," he murmured to himself. "I did give my word, so..." He broke off in a low grumble of frustration. "Why do I always let them do it?" he muttered. "Jolly jokers."

But he stayed in the recreation hall. After all, it was a promise.


	11. Chapter 11

Some time before the evening rehearsal, LeBeau took pity on Schultz's lonely vigil in the recreation hall, and provided solace in the form of a generous serving of _cassoulet_. It was enough to put the sergeant into a better frame of mind, and he greeted the arrival of the choristers with every sign of affability. In spite of this promising welcome, however, the rehearsal did not go well.

"Beckett," said Kinch tersely, when the Barracks 2 contingent returned, late. "Doyle should just throw him out."

"What's he been doing?" asked Hogan, who had stayed away from the recreation hall.

"Singing the wrong words," replied Kinch. "Him and his boys from Barracks 9."

"I'll never feel the same about _All Through The Night_ again," added Carter plaintively. "I'm always going to have those other verses in my head, whenever I hear it."

Hogan didn't bother enquiring as to what the gist of the alternative version might have been; he had enough of a handle on Beckett to make a pretty informed guess. "What's with him?" he growled. "I thought Doyle had him sorted out."

"With respect, Colonel, the only thing that would sort out Barracks 9 would be a couple of sticks of dynamite under the floorboards," observed Newkirk.

"I'm not sure Doyle's the man to handle them, Colonel," Kinch added. "He's okay, but..." He paused, frowning as he tried to find the right words. "He doesn't have authority," he said at last.

"Sure he has." Carter, in the act of removing his boots, stopped to stare at Kinch in perplexity.

"Not the right kind. It's like..." Kinch trailed off again.

"He treats them like children," LeBeau put in.

"Yeah, that's it. It's like being back in school, and Beckett's the bad kid up the back. I keep waiting for Doyle to send him to stand in the corner or something." Kinch went over to his bunk, the one over the tunnel entrance. "Guess maybe it's time you took a hand, Colonel."

He went below, as he still had duties to carry out in the radio room before he could sleep. The others had no such responsibilities, and started preparing for bed. Hogan went into his own quarters to do the same. He started taking off his jacket; then he shrugged it back on again.

"No time like the present," he muttered, grabbing his cap. He didn't want to undermine Doyle, but something had to be done.

"You going out, Colonel?" asked Carter, as Hogan came out of the office and headed for the door.

"Just thought I'd pay Beckett a quick visit, set him straight about why we're doing this," replied Hogan repressively. "Get a move on, guys, it's way past bedtime. The light's going out now, anyone who's not ready for bed can finish in the dark. And no fooling round."

"Oh, dear. The headmaster's not happy," murmured Newkirk irrepressibly.

Hogan ignored him, and slipped out of the barracks. The compound was in relative darkness, but the regular slow passage of the spotlight made crossing the open spaces between the barracks a dangerous prospect. The prisoners were not allowed outside after curfew, and the guards would consider themselves perfectly justified if they opened fire. So Hogan proceeded with caution, slipping from one building to the next and keeping his eyes open.

He paused outside Barracks 9, hearing voices from inside. Apparently Beckett and his men were having a debate of some kind. But one of the voices sounded a little too cultured to be coming from any of the inmates of that unruly residence. Hogan moved closer to the nearest window, straining his ears.

"...while I admit, it was amusing, there's a place and time for such things." He recognised Doyle's well-rounded accent and perfect modulation. "Now, I understand that you don't much like me, Beckett, and frankly, it's mutual. But that's immaterial. We're both here for one reason, to fight this war by whatever means are available, which means, whatever your personal feelings towards me, you - all of you - will remember only that I'm the one with the higher rank. And for that reason, whatever I tell you to sing - even if I put _Three Little Maids From School_ on the programme, and give you the first soprano part - you'll sing it."

Beckett started to speak, but Doyle cut him off with hardly a pause. "I haven't finished. You don't care for the job you've been asked to do. I understand completely. I don't like my part in it, either, and I'm quite certain, if you were to ask Colonel Hogan, he's not happy about constantly cutting deals with Klink and Burkhalter. But all of this is a means to an end."

"Well?" Beckett put in, as Doyle stopped for breath.

There was a slight pause before Doyle continued. "There's a man in Hammelburg who needs our help. He's given up ten years of his life. Think about it, all of you. Ten years ago, I was still at prep school, waiting for my voice to break. You were probably playing football with your mates, and sneaking into the local pub on Saturday nights, hoping your dad wouldn't find out. And Morrison was walking away from his home and family, and moving to a foreign country to prepare for a war hardly anyone thought would come. He's already done more than his share, more than you or I will ever be asked to do. Now if we can't put our differences aside, and pull together to get him out of Germany, then what kind of men must we be?"

Silence followed. Hogan waited, and at last Doyle spoke again. "Good. Now that we're all reading from the same hymn book, I assume I can expect a little more effort from every one of you. I don't want to be obliged to have this discussion again." A little pause, then, "Oh, and Beckett, when you have a minute, you might write out those extra verses for _All Through The Night_. I daresay it'll come in handy for a prisoners-only entertainment some time."

Beckett, sounding thoroughly chastened, murmured some kind of acknowledgement. Hogan moved back into the shadows, and watched with a slight smile as Doyle left the hut, and without the slightest attempt at concealment strolled across to his own barracks.

It hadn't been a model address, but Hogan, as he returned to Barracks 2, came to the conclusion that not one word of it could have been said any better. He no longer had any concerns about Doyle's ability to govern the men. He knew how to keep them in order, all right.

Beckett and his men would be feeling pretty small right now, but once they'd thought it through, they'd come into line. By Saturday night, Hogan was willing to bet, they'd be ready to sing the Hallelujah Chorus if it helped to get Morrison to safety.


	12. Chapter 12

Doyle's straight talk may not have made him any more popular with the men of Barracks 9, but it had at least earned him a measure of respect. Beckett was quite civil to him when the choir assembled for the trip to Hammelburg the following morning; and, as usual, the other malcontents took their tone from him.

And on the way to town, when Doyle, by way of a vocal warm-up, set them off on _Sumer is icumen in_, dividing his forces to sing it as a round, the whole ensemble seemed ready to give it their best. In the cabin, Hogan joined in, quietly, not sure of the words but responsive to the vigorous drive of the melody.

Doyle, however, wasn't satisfied. "For heaven's sake, gentlemen," he burst out, "this isn't a vicarage garden party. Let's have a little more energy, if you please."

And a measure of support came from his chief opponent: "I think what the lieutenant is trying to say is, put some balls into it."

The men reacted to that with a sudden crescendo which almost startled Schultz into driving off the edge of the road. Hogan couldn't sing another note for laughing, nor could he answer immediately, when Schultz, having brought the steering under control, turned to him with a plaintive question: "Colonel Hogan, I know my English is not good, but they say so many things I don't understand. What do they want with balls? They're not going to play tennis, are they?"

Another surprise greeted their arrival at the concert hall. "Gosh," said Carter, staring at the stage. "Nobody said anything about an orchestra."

An orchestra there was, all the same, a small one apparently composed of equal parts age-wearied amateurs and reluctant school children. And, as always seemed to be the case with orchestras in the tuning-up stage, the noise was appalling.

Hogan sighed. "Doyle, go have a talk with whoever's in charge. Make sure the right person is going to be conducting, okay?"

He grinned at the sour look on Doyle's face, and strolled off in the direction of Claudia Valensizi. The soprano appeared in the sunniest of tempers, and Captain Baumann was receiving the benefit; Hogan almost felt guilty at interrupting their little tête-à-tête.

"Well, it's all coming together, isn't it?" he remarked. From somewhere behind him, the complaint of an unhappy clarinet gave a decided negative response. Baumann turned, the smile fading from his lips.

"I think it's going quite well," put in Valensizi innocently, her dark eyes glimmering.

"Yeah, it sounds real good," said Hogan, to the accompaniment of further woodwind squeaks. "You know what I think, Baumann? I think now you've got the orchestra, you'll really notice a difference." He winced involuntarily at the sounds coming from the string section. "Yep, it's going to be some show."

For several seconds, the three of them stood silent, considering the prospects for a successful performance.

"Well, you've got work to do," said Hogan at length. "Don't let me keep you, Captain."

He sauntered off to the back row of the stalls, and took a seat. Presently the orchestra began to settle down; the choir shuffled into place, Doyle took up his place in front, and the rehearsal began.

It wasn't pretty. Hogan and his guys had engineered train wrecks that sounded better.

Valensizi, leaving Baumann, came to sit beside Hogan. For a while, neither of them spoke.

"I want to see him," she said at last.

Hogan glanced at her. She was watching Doyle, looking slightly bored; but her hands, gripping her purse as if it were a lifeline, gave her away. Fräulein Moller was sitting across the aisle, just out of earshot, shadowing the soprano as usual.

"Give it a few minutes," murmured Hogan. "Anyone notices you've left the hall, questions are going to be asked. They're probably already wondering why you keep coming to rehearsals when you're not needed."

"No, they're not," she replied. "Everyone knows why I'm here. I just can't keep away." Her eyelashes dipped slightly. "Poor Captain Baumann, I'm afraid he's in for a disappointment, when I lose interest. So temperamental, we Italians. Passionately in love one minute, completely indifferent the next."

She caught Baumann's eye, and smiled, coyly averting her eyes; and Hogan felt a twinge of pity for the captain. She was playing him, all right. But it was risky.

"Careful, signorina," Hogan murmured. "It's possible Baumann's brighter than he looks."

On the stage, Doyle had called a stop to proceedings. "This won't do at all," he announced. He fell into contemplative silence, then gave a further opinion. "The balance is still wrong. We're going to have to lose some of the women."

Shrill protest broke out instantly. Not one of the sopranos was prepared to stand down. Doyle held up his hands for silence.

"Well, what else can we do?" he said. "If we could find a few extra men - even just three or four..." He broke off, frowning, then turned a speculative eye towards the Stalag 13 guards.

"Sergeant Schultz," he said, "I wonder if you would mind...?"

Schultz just stared at him, round-eyed. Doyle waited, then beckoned, and Schultz, deeply suspicious, edged forward. Hogan couldn't hear the ensuing discussion, but he could see the consternation on Schultz's face, and read the emphatic words on his lips: "You want me to...?"

Doyle interrupted, pointing towards the other guards. Then, as Schultz continued to object, the lieutenant appealed to the highest authority in the building: "Colonel Hogan, could you spare a moment?"

After that, of course, it was plain sailing.

"Well, of course you're here to guard the prisoners, Schultz," agreed Hogan, in reply to Schultz's main argument. "And what better place to guard them from, than right on stage?" Then, as Schultz wavered, he threw in the clincher. "Of course, if you can't sing..."

That did it. Schultz glared at him, muttered incoherently, and waved his men forward; and as the ensemble rearranged itself to accommodate the extra bodies, Hogan retreated to his seat again, and gave Valensizi a wink.

"Okay," he murmured. "That's the first part."

Part two didn't require much effort. Once again, Doyle cut the song off in mid-phrase. "Something's still not right. I've got some very odd noises coming from the tenors."

Newkirk held up his hand. "Please, sir, I think that might be me. Bit of a sore throat this afternoon, it's messing up my voice a bit."

"We had an Adolf Hitler impersonation contest in the barracks last night," put in LeBeau. "Newkirk came second. Perhaps he overdid the angry shouting a little bit."

Newkirk made a dismissive gesture. "Well, you can't do a good Adolf without few demented shrieks, right? It's all part of the show, innit?"

"Who came first?" came the query from the back row.

Carter looked down, embarrassed. "Well, it's no big deal. Either you got it, or..."

"If you don't mind." Doyle broke in with an impatient wave of the hand. "Newkirk, you'd better take a break for now. Go and sit down, and try to go without speaking for the rest of the..."

A few muffled jeers greeted that, and the conductor amended the conclusion: "Well, for as long as you can, at least. Now, as for the rest of you..."

As Newkirk, not particularly downcast, strolled off stage towards Fräulein Moller, Hogan leaned a little closer to Valensizi. "Give Newkirk enough time to get comfortable with your friend over there," he said softly. "Then head backstage."

He got up, keeping an eye on the guards on stage, but they were fully occupied, trying to follow the music scores they had just been given and the directions of the conductor at the same time. Even Schultz had no attention to spare. Hogan's eye rested on him, then travelled to Langenscheidt, who was sharing a book with Carter, both of them looking terribly worried; from him to the lanky Gluck, and finally across to Telemann, broad and heavy-set, in the back row. And suddenly Hogan knew, to the last detail, exactly how he was going to get Morrison out of the concert hall, and back to Stalag 13.

They had one day to organise it; but if they could only swing it, it would happen right under Schultz's nose. And that would be the icing on the cake.


	13. Chapter 13

"Okay, Hogan, I'll buy it. If you say it'll work, I'll bet my life on it."

Hogan had found Morrison, after a brief search, in a small room at the end of a passage behind the stage. It was scarcely bigger than a broom closet, and had apparently been meant for such a purpose, although much of the space was now taken up with an odd assortment of dilapidated stage props. Morrison, relaxing on a gilded Egyptian throne in front of a flat depicting Dresden by moonlight, looked quite at ease. One thing had to be said for him; he was adaptable.

"That's exactly what it comes down to, Morrison," replied Hogan, who was seated with equal composure on a large mushroom, painted red with white spots. "I think we can pull it off, but it's going to require split-second timing. And whatever happens, Schultz can't be allowed to get a good look at you."

Morrison shifted, and his chair gave an alarming creak. "They sure don't build 'em like they used to," he remarked. "So, what happens once I'm at Stalag 13?"

"We hide you in the tunnel till we get a chance to get you to the coast," said Hogan. "And that could take some time. You're not an easy man to disguise, and they'll be watching for you."

"Is that going to be a problem for you? I don't want to louse things up for your operation, Hogan."

"We can handle it." Hogan stood up, and went to the door. "We got Decker out of the country, remember - and he didn't want to go."

He opened the door by an inch or so, allowing the sounds from onstage to penetrate Morrison's little sanctum.

"Say, is it just me, or are they starting to sound better?" said Morrison.

Hogan, checking the passage for possible onlookers, paused for a moment, listening. "You know, you're right. The orchestra's still all over the place, but the voices are almost good."

There was nobody in sight. "Wait here a minute, Morrison," murmured Hogan. "There's someone else wants to talk to you."

He stole quietly back down the little corridor until he was within sight of the stage. As he'd expected, Claudia Valensizi was waiting in the wings, out of sight of the stalls. To all appearances, she was absorbed in the music, such as it was. She turned her head as Hogan approached; the look of languorous amusement was gone, her eyes were open, the pupils wide in the dim light.

Without a word, he beckoned, and she followed him back along the passage. Morrison was waiting outside his little room, and even in the dim electric light, Hogan recognised the change in his expression. The signorina didn't make a sound. She went straight into his arms, and laid her head on his shoulder; and he took her into the storage room, and closed the door.

It was risky; if Valensizi was missed and a search conducted, it could be all up for Morrison. Realistically, Hogan knew he shouldn't have allowed it. But this was probably the last time they'd meet until after the war. He wasn't going to deprive them of it. He would let them have five minutes. Maybe ten.

* * *

"So, how long you been playing the old joanna, then?" asked Newkirk. Fräulein Moller gave him yet another cool scornful look, and didn't reply.

He was running out of opening lines. This bird was one of the hardest nuts he'd ever tried to crack. From his initial standpoint of just keeping her occupied, in case she was an informant, he'd progressed quickly towards a genuine wish to strike a response. Any response. It was a matter of personal pride; this stuck-up little piece wanted taking down a few pegs, and he was just the man to do it.

"See, I take a bit of a professional interest," he went on. "I'm in the entertainment business myself. London theatre scene, you know - well, music hall, anyway. I've worked with some of the best. And you know, you're not half bad, love."

A delicate flush appeared, not on her face, but at the base of her throat, and her lips twitched a little. So he'd got a reaction, anyway, though he wasn't sure what it was. She couldn't be laughing at him; he doubted she knew how. But there was definitely something.

"Mind you, you could learn a bit from Lilly May," added Newkirk meditatively. "She could keep an audience spellbound. Now, there was a really lovely bird. And talented. Played all the classics - Mozart, Brahms, Harry Lauder..."

The girl still didn't speak, but her eyelids dropped briefly, as if trying to hide something. Encouraged, Newkirk proceeded to embroider the story.

"Shame she had to retire so young," he went on. "She could have gone right to the top, you know. But once she had that nervous breakdown, and started pulling all her feathers out - well, nobody wants to pay tuppence to see a bald parrot playing the piano, do they?"

"A parrot?" She glanced at him, briefly startled out of her sulks.

_Got you there, Miss Prissy!_ thought Newkirk smugly.

"Oh, yes, didn't I mention that?" he said innocently. "Lilly was a parrot. An Imperial Amazon, she was. Star attraction in Tommy Taverner's trained bird act at the Palais - or was it the Excelsior? No, come to think of it, it was Barnsley's Circus."

Fräulein Moller quickly regained her self-possession, and returned her attention to the stage, and a few minutes of silence ensued, as Newkirk considered his next gambit. He still had a couple of tactics up his sleeve, but the girl had apparently decided enough was enough.

"Before you waste any more time, perhaps it will save some trouble if I explain something," she remarked. "You see, there is only one thing to be said to a man like you."

"Oh? And what's that then?" asked Newkirk, disconcerted.

She didn't even look at him as she replied, with every sign of complete boredom: "The zinnias bloomed early this year."

_Oh, flippin' heck!_ thought Newkirk. He turned his head to look at her, hiding his bewildered chagrin as best he could, and racking his brains for the correct response.

"My mother grows prize-winning petunias," he said, after a lengthy pause.

"I think you'll find it's primulas," murmured the girl with a touch of asperity.

"Primulas, petunias, what's the difference?"

"I could never really tell," she admitted. After a few seconds she went on: "Elsie Cooper, OSS. I'm told you work with Papa Bear."

Newkirk didn't answer at once; he had to adapt to a sudden shift in his ideas. "All right then," he said at length. "You're one of our lot. So, what are you doing hanging round Brunhilda? Signorina Valensizi, I mean," he added hastily.

"Probably the same thing as you," she replied. "One of our agents is in trouble, and on the run. My job is to find him, and help him get out of Germany, and my only lead is the prima donna. But time's running short. The Gestapo are on his trail as well."

"How close are they?" asked Newkirk quietly. This was a complication they didn't need.

The girl didn't answer at first, and he turned to look at her.

"A lot closer than you think," she said at last; and Newkirk felt a sudden cold chill as he followed the direction of her eyes, and found himself staring at Captain Baumann.

"Oh, that's just bleedin' marvellous," he muttered under his breath.

If she was to be trusted - which was yet to be confirmed - the Gestapo had a man right in the middle of the whole operation. In fact, he was pretty well in charge of it.

Just once, it would have been nice to get through one operation without things getting complicated. This wasn't going to be the one.


	14. Chapter 14

"Fräulein Moller - Elsie Cooper, I mean - checks out, Colonel," said Kinch, coming up from the radio room into the barracks, the following morning. He took a seat next to Doyle, who along with Beckett had called in for a final briefing. "London confirmed she's with OSS, dropped into Germany just after Morrison went on the run, with orders to keep Valensizi under surveillance, but not to take her into confidence. Seems our people in London had doubts about Brunhilda, too."

Hogan, standing with one foot on a chair, his elbow on his knee, straightened up. "Apparently Morrison's the only one who didn't."

"I didn't," protested LeBeau. "I knew all along she was above suspicion."

Hogan ignored the interruption, having already moved on. "What about Baumann? Can they tell us whether he's Gestapo or not?"

"Could be. He's been on Burkhalter's staff for about six months. Supposed to have been at the Eastern Front before that."

"And came back alive?" Hogan gave a short laugh. "That should have rung alarm bells right from the start. But if he's been there that long, he's obviously not specifically assigned to Morrison's case. He's just the Gestapo's inside man on Burkhalter's staff. If they're watching the soprano, it makes sense to use the guy who's already on the spot."

"Well, that's just sound business practice, isn't it?" remarked Newkirk. "I only hope they're paying him overtime."

"For running that show, they should pay him danger money," added Carter, from the door where he was keeping watch.

"What do we do about him, Colonel?" Newkirk went on.

Hogan frowned slightly as he reconfigured the plan to allow for the new information. "I think we've got it covered. All we have to do is make sure Burkhalter is listening when we tell Klink some of the prisoners are missing. With a bit of encouragement, he'll put his staff at Klink's disposal for the search. Including Baumann, who'll have to go along with it, or risk blowing his cover with Burkhalter."

"It's chancy, though," observed Newkirk. "Sooner you than me, Beckett, that's all I can say. Klink'll go bonkers when you're missed."

"Yeah, sorry about that, Beckett," added Hogan. "We only just got Dowland and Purcell out of the cooler, and this'll put 'em right back in there, and you as well."

Beckett shrugged. "Ah, well, we were bound to end up there before long anyway."

"You should take out a lease," said Newkirk. "But be warned, the landlord's a right miserable geezer."

"Aren't they all?" growled Beckett.

Hogan turned to Newkirk. "Did you manage to get what we need?"

"I did, Colonel. But it's going to be dodgy sneaking it into the hall."

"Whereas sneaking it out of the guards' barracks wasn't a problem?" Hogan grinned. "Come on, it wouldn't be fun if it was easy, would it?"

"I'd like to find out sometime," muttered Newkirk under his breath.

Before Hogan could reply, Carter turned his head. "Schultz is coming."

"Good. I need a word with him," said Doyle.

"I don't." Beckett stood and headed for the door. He began singing under his voice as Carter let Schultz into the barracks:

_Down behind the village dairy,  
All through the night,  
Colonel Klink and Dirty Mary,  
All through the..._

"That's not very nice, Beckett," Schultz called after him in a mildly reproachful tone. Then, after a pause, he added, "It's not bad, though."

"What can I do for you, Schultz?" asked Hogan briskly.

"The Kommandant wants to see you, Colonel Hogan," replied Schultz. "And Doyle as well."

The two officers exchanged looks. "Any idea why?" said Hogan after a moment.

"He didn't tell me. But whatever it is, he isn't very pleased about it. So better not keep him waiting."

"Okay, Schultz." Hogan nodded to Doyle, and raised his eyebrows slightly.

As they crossed the compound in Schultz's wake, he murmured a quick warning: "No matter what Klink's got to say, follow my lead."

"_Herr Kommandant_, as you ordered, Colonel Hogan and Lieutenant Doyle to see you." Schultz announced the arrival in a deprecating tone, and shuffled aside.

"Good morning, sir." Hogan breezed in, bright and enthusiastic. "Well, it's finally here. The big day. Exciting, isn't it?"

Klink, seated behind the desk as usual, glowered in response. "Dismissed, Schultz," he said. "And no listening at the door. Go and rehearse your songs, somewhere where I don't have to hear you."

"What's the matter, Kommandant?" Hogan's attitude shifted without so much as losing a beat. "Didn't you sleep well? You look a little out of sorts. Don't you think so, Doyle?"

"Definitely out of sorts, sir," confirmed Doyle, obviously trying to look sympathetic, and failing badly.

"I am perfectly well," replied Klink, pursing up his lips. "However, I am very displeased with you, Doyle. Very displeased. Why was I not informed until this morning that four of my guards were drafted into the choir at yesterday's rehearsal?"

Doyle glanced at Hogan, but the colonel was on top of it. "Aw, darn it," he broke out. "It was supposed to be a surprise. Who let the cat out of the bag?"

"Never mind who it was," said Klink, with a wave of his hands.

Hogan's eyes met Doyle's, and they both spoke at once: "Schultz."

"I'm not saying it was," Klink snapped back. Then, after a pause, "And I'm not saying it wasn't. I'm just saying, as their commanding officer, I should have been notified."

"Well, like I said, Kommandant, we wanted to surprise you," said Hogan meekly.

Klink grunted. "Oh, I'm surprised, no question of that. Schultz, of all people. The man has no idea of music. He thinks _allegro con fuoco _is something on the dessert menu at an Italian restaurant. Langenscheidt wouldn't know a decent melody line if it was served to him battered and deep-fried. Telemann's about as cultured as a cheese dumpling. As for Gluck...no, I'm sorry, Hogan, I simply can't allow it."

Hogan sighed, instantly despondent. "Gosh, sir, that's going to be an awful disappointment. But if you insist, can you at least do us a favour? Can you be the one to tell General Burkhalter that his wife is out of the soprano section?"

"Certainly, I - what did you say?" Klink's response took an abrupt detour.

"Well, someone's got to do it. If we lose four male voices, we're going to have to cut down on the women as well. Isn't that right, Doyle?"

"Absolutely, Colonel. But I'm sure as a trained musician, the Kommandant doesn't need to be educated in matters of ensemble balance." Doyle smiled at the Kommandant as he spoke, a smile eloquent of shared understanding from which Hogan was of course excluded.

"Of course, of course," murmured Klink. "But why must Frau Burkhalter be left out?"

"It's just easier that way," explained Hogan with a shrug. "So, if you'd just give the general a call, and explain to him that Mrs Burkhalter's out because you don't want your guards taking part, I'm sure he'll understand. About the whole ensemble balance thing, I mean. He's a musician too, isn't he?"

Klink made a dismissive gesture. "Him, a musician? He's a mandolin player, it's not the same thing at all." He fell into an uneasy, indecisive silence.

"Well, maybe you should speak directly to Frau Burkhalter," Hogan suggested. Klink shuddered.

"All right. The guards can sing," he muttered ungraciously. "Dismissed."

Hogan saluted snappily, Doyle as if conferring a favour. But as they reached the door, Hogan turned back, struck by a thought. "You know, Kommandant, there's probably room for an extra voice in the baritone section, if you're interested."

"Me? Sing with the prisoners? And with _Schultz_?" Klink's tone could not have been more outraged if he'd been invited to take part in a Mickey Rooney lookalike competition. "Hogan, are you out of your mind?"

A thoughtful frown crossed Hogan's face. "You know, sir, you're right."

He turned to follow Doyle from the office, leaving one last remark to put the finishing touch on Klink's frustration:

"After all, comparisons are so unfair sometimes."


	15. Chapter 15

Doyle found the time during the day to speak to Schultz, as he'd wanted to. Neither of them were seen for about an hour, and when Schultz finally reappeared, he had a dazed look about him.

"What did you do to him?" asked Hogan, as the men waited for the truck to transport them to Hammelburg late in the afternoon. Schultz was standing to one side, keeping his distance from the other guards. He spoke to them only when they approached him, and even then he adopted an aloof, condescending manner quite unlike his usual worried fluster.

"Told him he's singing a solo," replied Doyle.

"You're kidding, right? Doyle, I've heard Schultz sing, and it's not pretty."

"Have you ever heard him sober?"

"Well, no, but..."

"Then you can't really give an informed opinion, sir," finished Doyle placidly. "It's only a very short passage, we're not performing the whole work. I went through it with him earlier, and he'll pass. And Klink will be absolutely livid. How could I resist?"

Hogan was still laughing when the Kommandant came striding from his office to see them off, coming to a halt a few feet away to wait for them to come to attention.

To a man, the prisoners ignored him. So did the guards.

He gave them almost a minute, then hissed, "Schultz! Call the prisoners to attention."

Schultz straightened up, opened his lips and prepared to issue a resounding "_Achtung_!"

"Careful, Schultz," put in Doyle. "Don't strain the vocal apparatus."

Thus redirected, the order emerged in a tone of such delicacy as had never before been heard within the bounds of Stalag 13. Nevertheless, the prisoners responded, gradually finishing their private conversations and turning towards the Kommandant.

"I have a few words to say before I allow you to leave tonight," he began. "Firstly, I would like to express my appreciation of your efforts in support of this worthwhile cause."

Hogan suppressed a smirk. Klink had no idea how worthwhile the cause was.

"However, I just want to make one thing perfectly clear," Klink went on. "Some of you might look on this excursion as an opportunity for an escape attempt. Allow me to assure you, there is no possibility of success. Your every move will be watched for the whole evening. During the times when you are not on stage, you will remain under guard in the backstage rehearsal room. And it will be the same eagle-eyed vigilance to which you are accustomed here at Stalag 13. So be warned."

Hogan glanced at Langenscheidt, whose lips were moving silently as he tried to remember the words to _Weihe des Gesangs_; then Telemann, shifting his weight from one foot to another in response to a recurrence of his anxiety-related bladder problem; the almost pathologically stupid Gluck - he didn't need any special occasion to render him useless, it was his normal state; and finally, Schultz. And Schultz was gazing into the distance, remote from the everyday concerns of Stalag 13. He was above such things. He was a soloist.

Klink might think these four were going to be on the ball, but Hogan had no such concerns. Whatever he and his men needed to get up to tonight, the last thing they would have to worry about was the guards.

Having made his point, Klink finished his address: "I will be in the audience tonight, with General Burkhalter, watching your performance. And as your Kommandant, I expect great things from you. Men of Stalag 13 - make me proud." He paused to let that thought sink in; the prisoners immediately turned back to their private conversations. Klink stood irresolute for a few seconds longer, before cutting his losses. "Dismissed."

"Well, that's enough to make me want to sing flat straight away," muttered Newkirk. Although it was not cold, he was huddled in his RAF greatcoat, and if the bulkiness of it was anything to go by he was wearing an extra layer underneath. Kinch looked a little over-padded, too, and Carter kept fidgeting, and scratching his ribs.

"Carter, stop it," whispered LeBeau. "You'll attract attention."

"Well, it itches," replied Carter plaintively. "What do they wash their shirts in, anyway?"

LeBeau gave him a sharp nudge, and he subsided, just as Langenscheidt came to move them into the truck.

Doyle let them have their heads on the way, and they rewarded him with a varied mixture; a little Palestrina from his original ensemble, a few bawdy ballads from their near neighbours, and an extraordinary falsetto rendition of _Mackie Messer_ from Telemann, who as a loyal soldier of the Thousand Year Reich shouldn't even have been aware of Kurt Weill's existence. They finished, as was becoming habitual, with _Clementine_, sung in four different keys and with three different sets of words.

"You know, we really should have put that on the programme," remarked LeBeau, as they dismounted; not at the front entrance this time, but at the stage door.

"I think we've got enough problems, LeBeau, don't you?" said Newkirk, looking up at the scaffolding, which was not restricted to the front of the building but continued all the way around. "Blimey, it's a bit run down out back, isn't it?"

"Well, the building did suffer bomb damage, Newkirk," Kinch pointed out. "Probably improved it," he added, as he inspected what could be seen of the structure.

Captain Baumann met them inside, and directed them to the rehearsal room where they would be spending most of the evening. "In order to present an acceptable appearance on stage, we have provided jackets for you to wear," he said, regarding the motley assemblage of Allied uniforms with a slight sneer. "You will take care not to damage them. They are to be returned to the suppliers tomorrow."

"I just hope they're not military," growled LeBeau as they filed up the stairs. "I will not be seen in public dressed as a Kraut soldier."

"You wear their uniforms sometimes," Carter whispered back.

"Only to go out and blow up trains. That's different."

He was hardly placated when, on reaching the rehearsal room, he saw what they were to be wearing. "We're going to look like singing waiters," he protested, regarding the black jackets and bow ties with horror.

"And not for the first time, either," said Hogan. "Just put it on, LeBeau, and stop complaining." He raised his eyebrows as he spoke, and LeBeau's right-side dimple flickered in and out of sight as he weighed up the order, and proceeded to obey the first part and ignore the second.

The other men caught on quickly, and added their voices to the chorus of discontent. Baumann had already gone off to his other duties, but Schultz and the other guards remained. All complaints were directed at them, most unfairly, but with enough energy to distract them while Newkirk and Carter, and then Kinch and Beckett, divested themselves of the additional articles they had hidden about their persons. These items were stacked in a corner and covered with more innocuous-looking garments.

"All right, fellas, let's have a bit of decorum," said Hogan at length. "This is an important occasion. You don't want to embarrass the Kommandant by behaving badly, do you? Of course you don't. So just get yourselves ready. Show starts in fifteen minutes."

The guards, of course, were not expected to dress in the same outfit as the prisoners, but would remain in uniform. Nevertheless, a certain amount of preening was going on.

"Schultz, would you mind letting someone else have a go at the mirror?" demanded Newkirk.

"I have to look my best," replied Schultz, expanding his chest and giving his reflection a debonair smile. "I am the soloist, after all."

"That's not until the end, Schultz," said Doyle. "We open the show, and close it, and your big moment is the final number."

"What - _Schultz_ is singing the solo part?" Newkirk rolled his eyes. "I knew I should have brought earplugs."

"So, what's the running order, Doyle?" asked Hogan.

Doyle frowned slightly as he consulted his memory. "Combined choirs to start with - _Tanzen und Springen_, then the Mozart. The women sing by themselves after that. Then the orchestra - they're attempting Haydn, which will be a complete nightmare. After that there's an interval, then the men go on. Signorina Valensizi comes next, and then both choirs for the final chorus - _An die Freude_. Only part of it, otherwise we'd be here all night. I cut all the other solos. Beethoven will be spinning in his grave tonight."

"And you're conducting all the way through?"

"All except the signorina - she couldn't face singing with the orchestra." Doyle gave a rueful smile. "Fräulein Moller will play for her instead. So I'm not needed."

"Sounds like a fun evening," murmured Hogan. He glanced at the guards, then lowered his voice a little. "How long will the guards be on stage at the start?"

"You'll have a clear ten minutes. If I slow the tempo, maybe fifteen. It won't sound good, though."

Hogan gave him a grin. "Do me a favour, Doyle - slow the tempo."

A knock at the door heralded the appearance of a slightly flustered young private, apparently pressed into backstage service. He looked uneasily at the crowd of foreigners, then sidled up to Schultz and whispered something to him. Schultz in turn passed on the message to Hogan.

An expectant hush fell, as Hogan held up his hand and looked around at the members of the choir which had been put together so hastily, and on whose combined shoulders now rested the success or failure of this rescue operation. And he had no doubts. It was going to work.

"Gentlemen, take your places," he said. "It's show time."

* * *

_Weihe des Gesangs_: W. A. Mozart (1756-1791)

_Die Moritat von Mackie Messer (Mack the Knife)_: Kurt Weill (1900-1950); from _The Threepenny Opera_

_Tanzen und Springen_: Hans Leo Haßler (1564-1612)

_An die Freude: _L. von Beethoven, from the 9th Symphony ("Choral Symphony"); words by Friedrich Schiller. Known in English as "Ode to Joy". I couldn't resist, either.


	16. Chapter 16

Kommandant Klink entered the concert hall with a swagger in his step. He had a good feeling about this concert. In spite of his deeply-ingrained mistrust of both Hogan and Doyle, in spite of his profound belief that the prisoners never did anything without an ulterior motive, he couldn't help thinking the event was going to go well. And as the participation of Klink's prisoners had so much to do with it, surely it would score him a few much-needed points with Burkhalter.

All the best people in Hammelburg were here, too, and Klink felt a warm inner glow as he counted the opportunities for elevating his social standing. He sometimes felt as if the _créme de la créme_ didn't appreciate him at his true worth. They certainly never invited him to their parties. He couldn't understand why.

He strolled up to General Burkhalter, who greeted him with rare affability. "I have been wanting to speak to you, Klink. I have a very important job for you to do."

The general's face contorted as he finished. For a few seconds Klink wondered if he was about to suffer a seizure; then he realised Burkhalter was merely smiling. It was a disturbing sight, and Klink's return smile had something of panic in it.

"Anything, General, anything at all," he stuttered. "You know me, sir - always willing to help out. Whatever you need, I'm the man for the job. Just say the word, and I'll be right on it. You can rely on..."

"Klink - shut up and listen." Burkhalter's smile didn't waver, but an edge entered his voice.

"Shut up. Yes, sir."

Burkhalter squinted at his victim. "The chairman of the Winter Relief Fund committee was supposed to make an introductory address before the concert. Unfortunately, he has been obliged to withdraw his services, as he had another pressing engagement." He fell silent again, the smile fading slightly. "I am sure the Gestapo are mistaken about him. He is a most respectable gentleman. Nevertheless, we still need someone to step into the breach."

"Me, _Herr General_?" Klink's voice went off into an undignified squeak. "But - but I haven't prepared anything."

"You do not need any preparation, Klink," replied Burkhalter acidly. "All you need is the ability to go on and on without actually saying anything. You are the perfect choice."

"But, General..."

"Klink, you will make the introductory speech, and that is an order."

"Yes, General," responded Klink, in the meekest and most miserable of tones.

So when the massed choirs and the little orchestra took their place on stage, behind the drawn curtain, the Kommandant was hovering in the wings, his hands clasped in front of him, his long narrow face drawn into a worried frown.

"You look nervous, Kommandant," said a cheerful voice from behind him. "Don't sweat it. You know what they say, it'll be all right on the night."

"Thank you, Hogan," muttered Klink, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left.

"I thought Burkhalter was going to save a seat for you," Hogan went on innocently, although his eyes had narrowed a little. "You don't get the best view from back here, you know. And if you wanted to get autographs, the guys'll be back in camp tomorrow, you don't need to hang around backstage."

"General Burkhalter asked me to say a few words of introduction. The chairman of the committee was...well, he can't be here," Klink finished up.

"Gee, that's a shame. Isn't that a shame, Doyle?" Hogan turned to the conductor, who was standing beside him.

"Dreadful shame, Colonel. But I'm sure the Kommandant will be adequate," replied Doyle.

"Adequate? He'll be great. Nobody can make a speech like our Kommandant. Isn't that right, sir?"

"Of course it is," said Klink, drawing himself up. "I...I have no idea what I'm going to say, Hogan." His voice dropped into a low pathetic whine.

"Oh, come on, Colonel. I know you better than that," said Hogan. "You're a natural at this stuff. You'll just tell everyone what a worthy cause this is, maybe throw in a few anecdotes from your own musical experiences...were you ever a chorister, Kommandant?"

"Yes...yes, I was in the choir at my _Gymnasium_." Klink's unmonocled eye began to light up with sudden inspiration. "I was a very fine treble, you know."

"Then you should have a whole heap of stories to tell," Hogan concluded.

The assistant stage manager could be seen on the opposite side; he now looked across, and gave Klink a nod.

"Time to go, sir," said Hogan. "Break a leg."

Klink raised his head, braced himself and strode out in front of the curtain.

"Well, that should be good for an extra ten minutes," murmured Hogan. Then he gave a short laugh. "He was a treble."

"Of course he was," agreed Doyle. "It must have been a great relief to all concerned when his voice broke."

Hogan chuckled. "I'll give him a couple of minutes. You haven't seen Baumann around, have you?"

"Not since we arrived, Colonel," replied Doyle, a trifle distracted. His eyes had a faraway look, and his right hand was moving slightly, establishing the tempo for the first song.

"I'd be happier if I knew where he was."

"...when I was a chorister at school in Leipzig, we had a very fine choir master." Klink's voice had settled as he got into his stride. "And I remember, he always used to tell me that a choir is only as good as its weakest member. He told me that many, many times."

"I bet he did," said Hogan. "Okay, Doyle, good luck."

He slipped away, back to the rehearsal room where the men's uniforms had been left. As he approached the door, a sturdy figure in overalls came from the other direction. Neither of them spoke until they were inside, and the door closed.

Hogan went straight to the pile of garments in the corner, and began turning them over. "Okay, Morrison. One Kraut uniform - courtesy of Private Telemann. Don't thank him, he doesn't know we've got it."

"How'd you manage to get the helmet past the guards?" murmured Morrison, regarding the item with a bemused smile.

"I left it to Beckett, and I didn't ask." Hogan handed the rest of the uniform over. "Now, you know which one is Telemann?"

"The big ugly one. I mean, the big ugly one who isn't Schultz."

"That's him. So when the alarm goes up over the missing prisoners, you watch where Telemann ends up. If he goes with the search party, you head for the truck, making sure Schultz doesn't get a close look at you. If Telemann stays with the rest of us, you join the search party. Our guards will assume you're with Baumann, he'll assume you're from Stalag 13, so nobody's likely to pick up that you're a phoney. Just make sure you come back to camp, either with us or with the escapees. Once you're there, head for Barracks 2, and we'll get you into the tunnel."

"I've got to hand it to you, Hogan," said Morrison. "I've heard some wild ideas in my time - came up with a few myself - but this one's a humdinger."

"Yeah, if we can pull it off. It's going to be close, but I'm pretty sure we've got everything covered."

He broke off, at the sound of a knock on the door. For a second, both men froze, then Hogan nodded to Morrison and pointed behind the door. Only when Morrison was out of sight did Hogan open the door.

He found himself looking down at Fräulein Moller, the soprano's accompanist. "I need to speak to you," she said softly.

Hogan regarded her intently for a moment, then moved back to let her in. "It's okay, Morrison. She checks out. She's with OSS."

Morrison cast up his eyes with exasperation. "You could have let Claudia know," he told her. "Would have saved some trouble."

"Never mind that," the girl replied. She had dropped into English as soon as the door was closed; no longer Fräulein Moller, but Elsie Cooper. "She knows now. But this is urgent. We may have a problem."

"What kind of problem?" asked Hogan sharply.

"Captain Baumann seems to have gotten suspicious. He's put the whole show in the assistant stage manager's hands, and gone off somewhere. But he's left one of his men on guard outside the signorina's dressing room, with orders to allow her out only to go onstage. And from what he said, I think he's planning to arrest her once the show is over."

There was a moment of shocked silence.

"Hogan..." Morrison's voice was low, and grated slightly.

"Okay, stay cool," Hogan snapped. "We can still deal with this." He fell silent for a moment. "Are they watching you as well?" he asked, turning a sharp look on Elsie.

"No, I don't think so. Claudia's keeping the man distracted for now - giving him a real ticking off for his bad manners - but I don't want to be gone too long, just in case."

"Get back up there, and stay with her. And be ready for anything."

Elsie nodded briefly, and went to the door, checking carefully whether the coast was clear before she went off.

"Morrison, you go and find somewhere to hole up till the end of the show. Stick with the plan. Our first priority is to get you out," said Hogan.

Morrison was too good a soldier to protest. He breathed in deeply, squared his jaw and headed for the door. But the look on his face was of utter despair.

"We'll get her out of here, Morrison," added Hogan quietly. "I don't know how yet. But I'll think of something."

"I hope you can, Hogan," said Morrison. "Please. Just do what you can."

He left the room. Hogan remained behind, his mind racing as he recast the plan to allow for the new emergency. He couldn't come up with anything. But he wasn't prepared to give up.

In the overall scheme of the war, Claudia Valensizi was expendable. But as far as Hogan was concerned, that wasn't good enough. She was going to be saved. He just had to find a way to do it.


	17. Chapter 17

Klink's few opening remarks had proliferated, and now threatened to expand into a full autobiography. The audience had endured his reminiscences of childhood choral adventures with a stoicism worthy of the troops besieging Stalingrad; an audible sigh of relief rippled through the hall when he finally arrived at puberty, and lost his singing voice.

But their ordeal wasn't finished. The Kommandant was starting to enjoy the spotlight now. "So naturally my musical talents had to find another outlet," he went on. "And that was when I took up the violin."

"I wish I'd been at his first lesson," muttered Newkirk. "I'd have shot him."

One of the altos, younger than the others and very pretty, turned to her neighbour and whispered, "_Was hat er gesagt?_"

Her friend gave her a quick translation, and she giggled, glancing at Newkirk with bright blue eyes. "_Ich auch_!"

"...and if I do say so myself, it was remarkable how I took to it," Klink went on. "In fact, my teacher said he'd never met a student with a touch like mine."

From behind the curtain came a derisive squeak, courtesy of a fed-up fifteen-year-old bassoon player. Klink's peroration broke off abruptly. He started again after a few seconds, only to be interrupted again; this time the trombonist got in on the act. And a few seconds later, so did the man in charge of the cymbals.

"Maybe we should recruit these guys," murmured Kinch under his breath.

By now the whole orchestra had the idea, and Klink could hardly get a word in. He wasn't a man to give up easily, however, and he might have continued for some time. But Doyle, still waiting in the wings, had had enough. He strode out onto the stage, took up his position, and raised his baton; and a few seconds later, Klink's concluding remarks were drowned out by the entire orchestra. He stopped in mid-sentence, unsure what was happening. Then as the curtain rose, he slowly edged his way offstage, trying to look as if he was in complete control of the situation.

Hogan was there to greet him. "See, that went well, Kommandant," he remarked encouragingly. "You never sounded better. Great idea, getting the orchestra to play along. They're rolling in the aisles out there."

Klink uttered a low, incoherent whine of frustration. "If I thought your men had anything to do with that, Hogan...!"

"Oh, come on, Colonel. We can't take any credit for it. You know none of us plays the tuba," replied Hogan.

With another wordless grumble, Klink stormed off to find his seat in the auditorium. Hogan remained where he was, unconsciously humming along under his breath as he thought his way around the situation. It was going to be difficult, getting Claudia Valensizi to safety. Elsie Cooper, too; she was liable to find herself under the spotlight when the soprano disappeared.

Substitution was a possibility. Two additional prisoners could vanish with Beckett and his men, allowing the two women to travel back to Stalag 13 in their place. It was risky, though; Elsie might slip past, if the guards were careless, but Valensizi's face and form were not easily overlooked. On top of that, the first place Baumann and his men would look, once she was missed, would be among the POWs, which would increase the chances of Morrison being detected.

Hogan didn't absolutely reject the plan; one always needed a last resort to fall back on. He tilted his head to one side, studying his men, trying to determine which of them could be convincingly impersonated by a Junoesque blonde Italian prima donna, but although Carter had the height, and LeBeau the eyelashes, none of them had the figure for it. He was going to have to come up with something else.

The combined songs came to an end, and the men left the stage and crowded into the wings. Of course they loitered; the women, comrades a moment ago, were now their rivals, and no self-respecting chorister would let slip the opportunity to check out the competition. Even Schultz and the other guards forgot for a few moments that they were meant to be guarding the prisoners.

They were not disappointed. Doyle had made good use of the limited rehearsal time available, and had got them sounding very nice indeed; and whoever had chosen the repertoire had the good sense to keep it simple.

_Kein Feuer, keine Kohle kann brennen so heiß,  
Als heimlich stille Liebe von der niemand nichts weiß._

The little blue-eyed alto glanced offstage, and dimpled into a smile as she caught Newkirk's eye. LeBeau and Carter snickered.

"That's what comes of letting Newkirk sing Mozart," murmured Kinch. "It's just asking for trouble."

"What are you doing here?" The demand came in a rough whisper from the back of the crowd. The assistant stage manager, a stout, middle-aged individual with a comb-over and a harried expression, had realised they were still there. "We cannot have all these people in the wings. Sergeant, please take these men back to their dressing room until they are needed."

Thus recalled to his duty, Schultz immediately asserted himself. "Everybody back to the dressing room!"

"Shhhhh!" The stage manager seemed ready to burst a blood vessel in his agitation. "Keep it quiet, please."

"Sorry," mumbled Schultz. Then, almost inaudibly, "Everyone back to the dressing room."

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Schultz," whispered LeBeau, as he passed by. "Don't you have any idea how to behave backstage?"

"You'd think he'd know better, him being a soloist and all," added Carter, shaking his head in reproof.

As Schultz ventured on a _sotto voce _protest, he was hushed again, from all sides; to which he scowled, and ducked his head.

Langenscheidt remained behind, in order to escort Doyle back to the dressing room at the interval; however, the man in charge wasn't having it, and a few moments after the prisoners had reached the rehearsal room, Langenscheidt joined them, looking sheepish.

"He wouldn't let me stay there," he explained to Schultz. "He says there are already too many people around backstage, and he will arrange to have the lieutenant brought back here."

Schultz was not impressed. "You should have insisted on staying. If the Kommandant finds out nobody is guarding Doyle, we will all be in big trouble. You give in too easily, Karl. The prisoners must be watched at all times, no matter who says otherwise."

"Hey, Schultz," interrupted LeBeau, "I left my music book backstage, can I go and get it?"

"Go ahead," replied Schultz distractedly. Then as the Frenchman scurried off, he turned back to Langenscheidt. "Why is that stage manager so bad-tempered, anyway?"

"He's not very happy about Captain Baumann's absence," said Langenscheidt meekly. "He says he will have words with him when he gets back."

Hogan, overhearing this, frowned unconsciously. So Baumann was coming back; it wasn't unexpected, but chances were he'd be bringing extra Gestapo with him. That was likely to be a problem, even for getting Morrison out, let alone his lady friend. The whole plan was starting to look shaky.

_What we need is something to keep the Krauts distracted_, he thought. _If only we could get Baumann to send them off on a wild goose chase_…

And at that moment, inspiration struck, and his left eyebrow went up, as he realised how they could do it. A smug grin slowly dawned on his face, and he glanced around the room, then casually strolled across to the one man who had the sheer impudence to pull this one off.

"Newkirk, I'm afraid you're going to have to miss the rest of the concert," he murmured

"Come again?" Newkirk was visibly disconcerted. Perhaps he had hopes of pursuing his acquaintance with the little alto. Well, too bad.

"But don't worry - you'll still be performing," Hogan went on. "And it's going to be a doozy of a part."

* * *

_Kein Feuer, keine Kohle..._: Traditional: "No fire, no coal can burn as hot as secret, silent love of which nobody knows."


	18. Chapter 18

For the first time in many months, Timothy Doyle felt as if he'd got back into his own skin. He was doing what he was meant to do, what he would have been doing for the last three years, if this wretched war hadn't intervened. He never regretted for a moment having chosen to bear his part in the fight against Nazism, but he sometimes wondered if he would ever go back to the old life, or whether the musical career he'd worked towards since his sixth birthday had become part of the sacrifice.

Tonight, that doubt was laid to rest, for a short while at least. He'd made something good out of unpromising materials, and contributed to the war effort at the same time. And the worst was over now. He had few concerns about the Stalag 13 ensemble, and the closing item, though challenging, was exhilarating enough to lift even the most incompetent performer to a new level.

The assistant stage manager, looking more harried than ever, met him as he came off stage. "Please wait here for one moment," he said distractedly. "I will have one of the stage hands take you back to your room."

"I can find my own way," suggested Doyle. "Please don't go to any..."

The man interrupted, quite rudely. "You are to be escorted. Just as soon as someone is available." He turned around, looking for anyone who wasn't otherwise engaged, and collided with the sturdy form of one of the Hammelburg sopranos. She kept her balance better than he did; she had a low centre of gravity.

"Herr Müller, there is a problem in the women's dressing rooms," she began. "You must come and look at it at once."

"What kind of problem?" asked the stage manager, in the tightly-stretched voice of a man who was expecting the last straw to arrive at any moment.

She blushed; it wasn't a good look. "There is an overflow in... in... There is an overflow," she mumbled, after a few seconds.

Müller cast up his eyes. "I have nothing to do with the plumbing. There is a maintenance man somewhere in the building. You must ask him to..."

"We have been looking for him, but he doesn't seem to be anywhere around." The woman's voice grew plaintive. "Frau Burkhalter thought you might be able to fix it."

"Oh, she...Frau Burkhalter, eh?" The stage manager's retort broke off in confusion. He glanced at Doyle uneasily, then murmured, "Well...perhaps I could take a look..."

He swithered, then turned his head. "Hans, when you finish there, take this man back to the chorus rehearsal room," he called to a man at the back of the stage. Then, without waiting to see if Hans had heard him, he went off to pacify General Burkhalter's better half.

Doyle had sufficient tact to let him get out of sight before he sauntered off unaccompanied.

Unfortunately, his confidence in his ability to find his way proved to be poorly founded. The complicated layout of the backstage area might have been to blame, but it didn't help that Doyle's mind was on other things. He had started going over the performance, identifying the weaknesses. The orchestra had got out of time in the third movement of the Haydn, perhaps he should have conducted in four rather than...

He came out of his reverie with a start. Now wasn't the time for analysis, there were other more pressing matters to think about. For a start, were the men going to let him down in the _Contrapunto_? Then there was Schultz, his nerves might get the better of him when his big moment arrived. And the percussionist hadn't quite kept up with the _accellerando _at the last rehearsal...

_Where on earth have I got to?_

Doyle stopped in his tracks, suddenly aware he'd never seen this part of the concert hall before. Immersed in his own thoughts, he'd wandered into a long corridor, somewhere at the back of the building, going by what could be made out through the long-uncleaned windows. The walls had apparently once been painted a drab mid-green, but that must have been a very long time ago. A series of doors punctuated the internal wall; automatically, he tried a couple of them, but they appeared to be locked.

This wouldn't do. He had to get back to where he was supposed to be, before he was missed; otherwise Hogan's scheme for extracting Morrison would be put at risk. He turned back the way he'd come, trying not to break into an undignified scuttle.

The passage made a sharp turn at the far end. Doyle was almost at the corner when he stopped short at the sound of voices - German voices. One of them he recognised; Captain Baumann had come back, after all.

This was awkward. Getting past Baumann without being seen was likely to prove difficult, and if he was spotted by the Gestapo's inside man it could be disastrous. Doyle flattened himself against the wall, listening.

"... two men at every exit," said Baumann. "Nobody leaves the building without being identified. Keep a special watch out for the maintenance man. It seems nobody knows how he came to be employed here. He could be part of the Underground, or he could be our fugitive."

"_Jawohl, Herr Kriminalinspektor_," replied an unfamiliar voice.

Doyle's eyes widened, and he had to make an effort to prevent himself from looking around the corner. A moment later, the sound of jackboots on the wooden floor warned him of the approach of Baumann's men. He needed to get out of sight, fast.

Instinctively, because the doors he'd tried on the right had been locked, he went for the only door on the left, along the outside wall of the building. It opened easily; he almost fell over backwards, righted himself, shot out into the open air and closed the door behind him. Then he ran to the end of the building. A moment later, he heard the door open and close again.

He edged closer to the corner, risking a quick look. Two SS men were standing outside the door through which he'd just exited. Doyle ducked back, and turned around, looking for another way in, and found he was only a few yards from the entrance by which the prisoners had been admitted, a couple of hours earlier; the truck from Stalag 13 was still parked a little further along the lane. If he was quick, he'd be able to get back into the hall before Baumann's men got that door covered.

He hurried forward, but it was already too late, and he had to run for it, taking cover behind the truck as another pair of SS men emerged from the building.

For half a minute, he remained where he was, trying to come up with an alternate plan. There were bound to be other points of ingress, but chances were Baumann had every one covered; and even though they'd be more interested in anyone trying to get out, he didn't think they'd be indifferent to someone trying to get in.

The interval was already half over; he had to think of something before the audience went back inside and the curtain went up...wait a minute. That was it. There was only one point at which nobody entering would be looked at too closely. All he had to do was walk in through the lobby with the rest of the crowd.

He crept to the back of the truck, and peered around the side, towards the backstage door. The two guards were not looking in his direction, and it was dark at this end of the lane. Taking advantage of this, he moved quickly but cautiously, and gained the far corner of the building, where he paused for a moment, straightening his jacket and running his fingers through his hair to neaten it. Then he started off, making his way around the hall towards the front entrance. He half expected to hear a shout behind him, or even a shot; but nobody even saw him.

He strolled into the crowded lobby with a casual air, which evaporated rapidly on sight of the woman who was standing at the door leading to the stalls. She saw him, and the gleam in her eyes indicated she had recognised him. He knew her on sight, too, even though he only met her once: at the first rehearsal, when he'd ousted her from the position of conductor. She hadn't taken kindly to it, and she had the look of a woman who could easily spend a lifetime nursing a grudge,

Apparently she'd found another niche, managing the front of house. There was nothing for it but to try to get past her. Doyle raised his chin a little, and went forward, giving her a nod and a vague smile as he reached the door. "_Guten Abend_," he murmured.

She smiled, too. "May I see your ticket, please?"

"I don't have a ticket. I don't need one," Doyle began.

"Nobody is allowed in without a ticket."

"But I'm the conductor."

"The conductor is a prisoner from Stalag 13," replied the woman, without batting an eyelid. "He would not be allowed to roam around the building without a guard."

Doyle felt his temperature rising. "You know who I am, madame," he pointed out in an excessively polite tone.

"Maybe I do. But I'm still not letting you inside the hall." She spoke with triumphant finality. There was nothing he could say to change her mind; his only option was retreat.

He moved away, frowning slightly as he considered his options. Then he spotted Klink, standing some distance away, deep in conversation with Burkhalter. If the Kommandant spotted him...!

Doyle was back out on the street before he finished the thought.

He stood in the street, gazing up at the façade of the concert hall, its elaborate, bomb-damaged stonework half-hidden by the scaffolding wrapped around it.

There was one more way in he could try. He had no confidence in his ability to pull it off, but the situation was getting desperate. He went back around the corner of the building; checked to ensure nobody was watching; and, with the natural grace of a man who'd only just survived basic training, reached up to grasp the first cross-bar of the scaffolding, and commenced an ungainly ascent towards the row of windows on the first floor.

Any one of Hogan's men - in fact, any one of the other prisoners - would have made nothing of it; but Doyle was not designed for anything more athletic than an _allegretto con brio_, and he was in trouble within the first ten seconds.

It occurred to him, as he clung to the metal framework, trying to get his left foot to a higher position without allowing his right foot to slip off the bar, that perhaps it would have been useful, when he was nine, to skip a couple of the Goldberg Variations, and go and practice climbing trees instead.

He was exhausted by the time he reached the nearest window, and his hands were damp with perspiration. So he shouldn't have been surprised when, as he pushed the lower sash upwards, his fingers slipped, allowing it to drop with a crash which cracked the glass. It startled him; his balance became even more precarious, and he swayed back, then forwards again. By reflex he put his hand up to break the impact; it met the window pane, which gave under the pressure. He almost fell through, but by a desperate effort managed a recovery.

He was bleeding. The falling shards of glass had cut his hand and forearm. There was little pain, but he was within touching distance of complete panic. If he'd injured the tendons...if he'd done any permanent damage to his hand...

"_Was ist los_?" The query came from inside the building. Doyle, his wits shocked into paralysis, saw only a _Luftwaffe_ uniform, and his grip on the scaffold tightened.

Then the man in the uniform ducked his head, peering through the empty window frame. "Doyle? Is that you? What the hell are you doing?" The accent was American. For several seconds, Doyle wondered if he'd lost his mind. Then the details of Hogan's scheme came back to him.

"Morrison - thank God it's you," he panted. "Give me a hand. I may have just destroyed a brilliant career."


	19. Chapter 19

"Doyle should have been here by now," murmured Hogan, surreptitiously checking his watch while Schultz wasn't looking.

The rehearsal room was so far to the back of the building that no sound from the stage reached the men inside, so there was no way to be sure whether the interval had started. But Hogan was getting anxious. The later the concert ran, the more risk the plan would fail.

"Maybe there was an encore," said Kinch.

Hogan shook his head. "I've heard the orchestra, Kinch. I don't see any audience demanding more of it, even with Doyle in charge. He's good, but he's not a miracle worker."

He glanced towards Schultz and Gluck, who had remained in the room with the prisoners, while Langenscheidt and Telemann patrolled the corridor outside.

"We can't wait any longer. We'll just have to play it by ear, and hope nothing's gone wrong," murmured Hogan. He nodded to Newkirk, who was sitting on the other side of the room.

Newkirk returned the nod, and murmured a word in LeBeau's ear. Then he stood up, took a couple of steps, staggered a little and pitched forward, only saved from falling by the quick action of LeBeau and Lovelock, who caught him and lowered him to the floor

A chorus of queries and exclamations broke out from the rest of the men, and Schultz hurried across the room. "_Was ist los_?" he demanded. "Quiet, all of you. Newkirk, what are you doing?"

"Oh...blimey, Schultz, I just...oh, I came over all..." Newkirk put one hand to his forehead, leaning against LeBeau's shoulder.

"Just another dizzy spell, I think, _mon Colonel_," said LeBeau, as Hogan joined them.

"If I could lie down for a bit, I'll be fine," whispered Newkirk. "It's just...it was so hot out there under the lights, you know."

"Okay, Newkirk, take it easy." Hogan waved the rest of the men aside. "Maybe all this excitement is just a bit too much for you. I think you'd better sit out the second half."

"Oh, no, please, Colonel." Newkirk broke out into a protest. "I'll be right as rain in no time, you'll see. The show has to go on."

"It can go on without you, Newkirk," put in LeBeau. "You need to rest."

"He is right. You look terrible." Schultz peered over Hogan's shoulder.

Newkirk sat up, looking mildly offended. "Thank you, Schultz. Thank you very much." Then he remembered he was supposed to be ill, uttered a stifled groan, and fell back, this time onto Lovelock's chest.

"Well, that appears to settle it," said Hogan. "Newkirk - "

He got no further. A brief commotion at the door heralded the belated arrival of Lieutenant Doyle, accompanied by an agitated Langenscheidt. Doyle's face was pale, his hand and sleeve spattered with blood from a series of cuts on his arm; he looked sick. Schultz shuddered, and LeBeau averted his eyes.

Newkirk's supposed indisposition was forgotten, even by himself.

"What the hell happened?" demanded Hogan sharply,

"Slight accident on the way back from the stage, sir," replied Doyle faintly. "Not sure how bad it is. It doesn't hurt much."

"One of General Burkhalter's men brought him back," added Langenscheidt.

Hogan was examining the injuries to Doyle's arm, but he glanced up, in time to read the name on the conductor's lips: _Morrison_. Doyle didn't say any more, apparently unwilling to give any details while the guards were present. How he'd come by the damage would have to remain a mystery for now; but Hogan read in his eyes the dread of permanent impairment, and spoke quickly to try to set his mind at rest.

"It doesn't look like it's gone deep," he said. "Can you flex your fingers? Yeah, that's right, close 'em up, and just roll your wrist around a bit...that looks okay. I'm not a medic, Doyle, but I know a bit of first aid. If you'd done any serious damage, you wouldn't be able to do that." He saw the look of relief on Doyle's face, and was satisfied. "But we better get it cleaned up. Schultz..."

"I see nothing," whimpered Schultz, who had turned a delicate green colour.

A moment later there was a further interruption, as one of the backstage assistants put his head around the door. "_Fünf Minuten_," he said, and vanished again.

"Five minutes, Colonel," said Kinch. "We better get Doyle ready, fast."

Hogan shook his head. "Can't do it, not in five minutes, Kinch. Doyle, you look as sick as a dog."

"I do feel a bit poorly, to be honest, sir," murmured Doyle. "But..."

"You better sit down." Hogan and Kinch guided him to the nearest chair.

"No, please, sir, I'll be fine," Doyle got out. "If I could just have a glass of water..."

"You're still bleeding, Doyle. Not a good look for a performance." Hogan lowered his voice. "We don't want the audience to start wondering what's going on backstage. Any chance the guys can manage without you?"

Doyle's expression made a perfect transition, from anxiety to outrage, and from there to thoughtful contemplation. He shook his head. "They're almost good enough, but not quite. They need direction. But..." He trailed off, with a pained look which had nothing to do with his injury. "Perhaps someone else could conduct," he finished reluctantly.

Hogan glanced around at the assembled choristers. "You got someone in mind, Doyle?"

"Oh, I think so." Doyle grimaced slightly. "It's not ideal, of course. He's completely untrained, but he knows his part, and I'm sure he knows everyone else's as well. He's got a very good ear, you know. If he can keep everyone on tempo, and make sure they manage their entries and cut-offs, that will do. The dymamics will just have to take care of themselves. And he's got perfect pitch. That has to help."

A moment of silence followed. The choristers exchanged glances. Newkirk, still reclining, started shaking with laughter; LeBeau caught his eye, and looked away quickly, struggling to control his own hilarity. Kinch had to bite his bottom lip. But Hogan remained as grave as a judge, as he turned to the man who had just been promoted to the position of director of the Stalag 13 Male Voice Choir.

And Carter gazed back, wide-eyed and perplexed, and in a voice which quaked with anxious trepidation asked, "Why is everyone looking at me?"


	20. Chapter 20

"But...but...but..."

The full horror of what was being asked of him had virtually deprived Carter of the power of rational thought, let alone of speech. He stared at Doyle, his eyes open so wide they appeared in danger of falling out. Hogan, watching the phenomenon with interest, concluded that was what a rabbit must look like, when it discovered the meaning of the word "fricassee".

"It's really not that difficult, Carter," said Doyle impassively. "All you have to do is keep everyone to an even tempo, and make sure they all start and stop at the right time. The rest is just showmanship."

Even Carter knew that was an oversimplification of almost criminal magnitude, and his faculties returned in a rush of indignant protest. "Well, if it's that easy, let someone else do it," he snapped back. "Why should I always have to be the one to make a goof of himself?"

"Well, you are the best man for that, Andrew," observed Newkirk, his voice shaking with suppressed amusement.

"You've had so much more practice than the rest of us," added LeBeau.

Carter scowled. "Thanks a lot. Well, forget it. I'm not doing it." He folded his arms, tilted his chin, and prepared to resist whatever arguments the others might throw at him.

He didn't have a hope; Hogan was about to take up the case.

"Carter, by any chance do you remember why we're here?" The colonel was smiling, but there was a gleam in his eye which his men all knew well.

"Well... well, yeah, I guess," muttered Carter sulkily. He wasn't anywhere near ready to give in, although he'd never yet held out once the colonel got involved. "But..."

"Good. I was starting to think you'd forgotten."

Nobody spoke for several seconds. Carter bit his lower lip, refusing to meet Hogan's eyes.

"What if I mess things up?" he said at last.

"Even if you did, it wouldn't be the end of the world," Hogan pointed out. "But if Doyle says you're the best man available...well, I suppose he knows what he's doing," he finished up. "Of course, if you think otherwise..."

Carter's eyebrows drew in, as he gazed around the room. The looks he received in reply, from both his fellow choristers and the guards, didn't suggest confidence in his ability to carry out this assignment. At least, most of them didn't. Doyle was pale, and the shock of his accident seemed to be giving way to drowsiness. But he met Carter's anxious eyes, and smiled.

"It's actually quite simple, Carter. Just stick with whatever you feel happy conducting," he said quietly. "Trust your singers, trust your own instincts, and let the music tell you what to do. And don't worry - what's the worst that can happen?"

Carter appeared ready to start cataloguing the possibilities, but with Schultz and the other guards in the room, it wasn't the right moment. He scuffed his feet on the floor, petulantly. Hogan gave him a few seconds to think about it, then nodded to the rest of the ensemble.

"Get going," he said. "Carter won't let us down."

"Oh, boy!" muttered Carter. As the other men left the room, followed by the guards, he remained where he was, shaking his head in bewilderment, unable to work out exactly how he'd ended up in this situation. Hogan stood up, went over and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Andrew," he said, in a vaguely paternal manner which failed to mask the fact that this was not a suggestion but an order, "I don't blame you for being scared. This is probably the most dangerous assignment you've ever been given. Those music lovers can be absolute murder. But if you don't take the stage now, the whole show's over, including the part we don't want the Krauts to see. So you get out there and do what has to be done."

Carter swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Good man. Now, we might need a little extra time, so stretch it out as much as you can." Hogan suppressed a grin at the look of despair on Carter's face. "When you see me in the wings, you'll know it's safe to wind things up."

"You gotta be kidding, pal - I mean, sir," Carter broke out.

"That's a big order, Colonel," put in Doyle. "After all..." He stopped abruptly, as Gluck came back into the room.

"They are waiting for you in the corridor, Carter," he said.

Carter turned one more pleading look on the colonel. It didn't work. "Go on, Carter," said Hogan.

"Break a leg," added Newkirk, in a remarkably cheerful voice for a sick man.

"Yeah, sure. When was I ever that lucky?" mumbled Carter as he left.

Gluck settled his bony frame onto a chair. Apparently he'd been left behind to guard the remaining three prisoners: Hogan, Doyle and the supposedly ailing Newkirk. It wasn't unexpected, but his presence was undesirable.

Hogan had returned to his examination of Doyle's injuries. "What I wouldn't give to see how that goes over," he remarked. "Say, Gluck, isn't there a first-aid kit in the truck?"

"_Keine Ahnung_" replied Gluck, in his usual lacklustre tones.

"I think there was, Colonel," put in Newkirk. "Under the seat - or was it in the back?"

"Well, we need it, anyway," said Hogan. "We don't want to take any chances with infection. I'll just go and..." He headed for the door.

"_Nein, das ist verboten_." Gluck jumped up so fast he almost rattled. "You must stay here."

"All right." Hogan shrugged. "Then you go and find the first aid kit."

"But...I cannot leave you with no guard," stammered Gluck.

"Well. someone has to go get it. You don't want poor Doyle's arm to go septic, do you? That'd go down real well with the Kommandant. Every time one of the prisoners gets sick, he has to fill out a twelve page report. In triplicate. He won't be happy about that. And if Klink isn't happy, what does he do? He finds someone to blame."

"And that someone usually ends up standing in a field somewhere, up to their knees in snow, trying to remember the Russian word for _Kamerad_," added Newkirk.

Hogan sighed at the puzzled look on Gluck's face. He wasn't the brightest Kraut around, it didn't pay to be too subtle when talking to him. In this case a translation was needed. "On the Eastern Front, Gluck."

Gluck wavered. He was scared enough of the Kommandant, but Schultz had ordered him to stay on guard. And Gluck was the only man at Stalag 13 - possibly the only man in Germany - who was actually afraid of Schultz.

"Look, these two aren't going anywhere," Hogan went on. "Doyle's got the final number to direct, he's not going to let anything deprive him of that. And Newkirk's too sick to move." Gluck's eyes shifted to Newkirk, who put on an exaggerated expression of suffering, and uttered a faint moan. "Schultz doesn't have to know," Hogan added, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

"You promise you won't tell him?" stammered Gluck.

"You have my word on it," replied Hogan, with perfect truth.

Gluck's face collapsed into an expression of gratitude, as his dilemma resolved. All he ever needed in life was someone to tell him what to do. "_Danke_, Colonel Hogan," he burst out. "I will go and get the first aid kit. You stay here, _ja?_"

"Oh, _ja, ja_," said Hogan.

He waited till Gluck had gone, and his footsteps had faded into distance, before he went to the door and opened it carefully. "All clear," he murmured.

"Colonel, Captain Baumann is back." Doyle could hardly wait to break the bad news. "He's brought extra men with him, they're guarding the exits."

"Oh, blimey, just what we need," grumbled Newkirk, scrambling to his feet.

Hogan nodded, without turning. "Should still be manageable. As long as we can find him - "

He broke off, as a sturdy figure in _Luftwaffe_ uniform appeared at the end of the corridor. Then he relaxed. "Morrison - in here." He drew back to allow Morrison to enter the room, then returned to his surveillance.

"Baumann's just gone up to Claudia's dressing room," said Morrison. His expression was grim. Baumann was in a lot of trouble, when Morrison caught up with him.

"Alone?"

"Two SS men are patrolling the corridor."

"Okay. We can deal with them." Hogan straightened up. "Newkirk, Morrison, you come with me. Doyle, wait here."

"Colonel, when Gluck gets back, what do I tell him?" asked Doyle.

Hogan, on the point of leaving, turned back with a grin. "Oh, that's easy, Doyle. Newkirk made a miracle recovery when he realised what he was about to miss."

"And that would be...?" Doyle had already worked it out, and a glitter of laughter lit up his eyes.

It was reflected in Hogan's as he answered. "Carter's making his debut as a conductor at this very moment. Come on, Doyle - who'd want to miss that?"


	21. Chapter 21

The Stalag 13 Choir had taken up position onstage, standing in two rows just as they did twice a day for roll call; although not a man of them had ever turned out for assembly looking quite so respectable.

Carter remained in the wings, still in a state of bewilderment over his unexpected elevation to what was, effectively, a position of command. He'd never quite got the hang of that kind of stuff. _Why couldn't Doyle have picked someone else?_ he thought. _Kinch or LeBeau, maybe. Boy, I bet even Beckett could have done it._

There was no escape now. To get out of here, he'd have to get past Schultz, which was never easy; not because Schultz was fast, but because there was so much of him. Anyway, he couldn't let the guys down. They were depending on him.

"How hard can it be?" he muttered under his breath. "All I have to do is go out there and get them to sing...what the heck are we supposed to be singing?"

He couldn't remember, and he was seized by a kind of paralysis.

_Just stick with whatever you feel happy conducting,_ Doyle had said. But Carter was pretty sure feeling happy wasn't an option.

In the auditorium, Kommandant Klink had just returned to his seat. He'd managed to weasel his way into the box reserved for General Burkhalter; perhaps there was an element of gratitude involved, as it was only due to the participation of Klink's prisoners that the concert had actually gone ahead.

"It all seems to be going very well," he observed brightly.

Burkhalter was in a genial mood. His wife was happy; he had been able to tell, when she was on stage with the other singers, that she was very happy indeed. And when Bertha was happy, Burkhalter's life was much more comfortable.

"I will be most interested to hear this, Klink," he said. "It seems Doyle has unsuspected executive skills."

"Indeed he does, General," burbled Klink.

"When he returns to Stalag 13," Burkhalter went on, "make sure you keep your eyes on him. I don't trust him."

"Excuse me, _Herr Kommandant_." The interruption came from Langenscheidt, who had crept into the box, and now stood hesitating behind the Kommandant. "Sergeant Schultz sent me to let you know, Lieutenant Doyle had a slight accident, and he is unable to conduct the choir."

"What happened?" demanded Burkhalter sharply, turning his entire body to glare at the unfortunate guard, and thereby depriving Langenscheidt of the power of communication.

"Well?" Klink's voice went up with nervous irritation. "Don't just stand there, answer the general."

Langenscheidt swallowed, and stammered back into speech. "He cut his hand. One of the other prisoners is taking his place as conductor."

Burkhalter pursed his lips. "If this is some kind of ruse, Klink..."

"Of course it isn't," Klink broke in. "There would be no chance of success. I have four of my best guards watching the prisoners' every move."

"I thought you said you brought Schultz."

"_Bitte, Herr Kommandant_," mumbled Langenscheidt, "Gluck has stayed with Doyle and Colonel Hogan in the room backstage."

"You see, General?" said Klink. "Everything is under control."

Burkhalter looked dissatisfied, but accepted the explanation. "I don't wish to spoil the concert," he said after a moment's thought. "As long as the prisoners are under supervision..."

"Every minute, General. You have my word on it. Langenscheidt, which of the prisoners has taken over conducting?"

But Langenscheidt didn't feel equal to answering that question, and retreated thankfully as the house lights went down, and the curtain opened. He didn't want to miss this, either.

For a few seconds, Klink peered at the assembled choristers, trying to work out who was missing. Then the substitute director appeared, looking very much as if he'd rather be elsewhere; and Klink's monocle dropped out in sheer astonishment.

"_Carter?_" he squeaked.

"Shh!" The rebuke came at him from all sides.

Carter, bright red with embarrassment, shaking with nerves, made a hasty, inelegant bow, and turned his back on the audience, without saying a word. He looked around at the ensemble, trying to remember even one song.

Then his half-panicked memory suddenly threw out a piece they'd sung every day since this started. That would do, he could cope with that one. With a vague sense of relief, he informed the choir in a stage whisper what they'd be opening with.

"Carter, that's not on the programme," muttered LeBeau, as the other men exchanged startled looks.

"Well, it is now," Carter replied, slightly too loudly. He caught Kinch's eye, cleared his throat and hummed the starting note. Then, trying to copy what he'd seen Doyle do, he raised his hands, waited till he had everyone's attention, and gave them the beat. And Doyle's well-trained, well-disciplined ensemble responded, in sweet, harmonious unity:

_In a cabin, in a canyon,  
__Excavating for a mine,  
__Dwelt a miner, forty-niner,  
__And his daughter Clementine..._

* * *

Morrison took the lead on the way up towards Claudia Valensizi's dressing room; because he knew his way around the building, and also because, as he was in uniform, it would be easier for him to deal with anyone they encountered on the way. Hogan followed, and Newkirk, still wearing what LeBeau had dismissed as singing-waiter costume, brought up the rear.

They met nobody on the stairs, but as they reached the upper corridor Morrison stopped in his tracks, then stepped back.

"SS, outside the dressing room," he whispered.

"Okay, you know what to do," Hogan murmured. He retreated with Newkirk to the first landing. Morrison went halfway down, to give himself a good run up. Then he rushed back up the stairs and into the passage.

"_Halt_!" The two SS men swung round at his arrival, their weapons ready. Morrison stopped so abruptly he almost fell over, and gaped at them, just as if he'd never seen any SS before.

"Who are you?" one of them demanded.

"_Bitte...bitte..._Private Kraus...Stalag 13..._bitte_."

Hogan grinned, and Newkirk suppressed a chuckle. Morrison was more versatile than either of them had given him credit for, and had the average prison guard pegged, all right. He sounded as if he was about to faint.

"This corridor is restricted access," the SS guard snapped back.

"_Bitte_," said Morrison again. "I need to find Captain Baumann. I was told...there was someone he was looking for. The maintenance man."

The two men glanced at each other. "You have seen him?" asked the one who had spoken before.

"He was loitering outside the room where the prisoners are, when we took them to the stage," replied Morrison. "He looked very suspicious. Sergeant Schultz didn't notice him, he was lurking. Suspiciously. So I thought I should let Captain Baumann know..."

"Captain Baumann is not to be disturbed," replied the SS curtly. "Go back and keep him under surveillance until the captain is available."

Hogan and Newkirk couldn't see Morrison, but if the note of panic in his voice as he replied was anything to go by, he was putting on one hell of a performance. "But...but I am supposed to guard the prisoners. And he looked dangerous. A man who looks like that would stick at nothing."

"Are you afraid?"

"Oh, no...but...but..." Morrison stammered off into silence; then, as neither of the SS men replied, he went on. "If I didn't have to think of my family, I'd tackle him without thinking twice. But I have a wife, and seven children, completely dependent on me. And I'm not as young as I was. And he's armed. Well, he has a hammer, and I think he knows how to use it."

_He could almost pass for Schultz_, thought Hogan appreciatively.

Once again the two men exchanged glances. "Very well," said the one who was doing all the talking. "We will take care of the suspect. But you must wait here, and make sure the captain is not interrupted."

"Oh, I'll do that," replied Morrison. "Don't go that way," he added. "I came up the back stairs so he wouldn't see me. It's quicker if you take the other stairs. Go down three flights, turn left and go through the big door at the end."

As the two men rushed off towards the other end of the passage, he backed towards the stairs. "All clear," he hissed.

Hogan and Newkirk ran up the stairs. "Where'd you send them?" Hogan asked.

"Under the stage," replied Morrison cheerfully. "Should take 'em a while to get out, too. That whole area's being used for storage. There's a whole lot of furniture and props, as well as leftover building materials from the renovation. It's a mess. And the lights don't work."

"Well, that should keep them occupied," said Hogan with a grin. "For a while, at least. You ready, Newkirk?"

"Looking forward to it, sir," replied Newkirk dryly. "I haven't done something that could get me shot for...oh, nearly a week."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Hogan's grin widened; but anyone who thought he was taking this lightly was mistaken. "Okay, men. Let's put on a show."


	22. Chapter 22

"There is no need for you to stay, Fräulein Moller."

Baumann, standing just inside the door of the dressing room, threw the words at the accompanist, without taking his eyes off Claudia Valensizi. The prima donna glared back at him, and for once she wasn't smiling. If she'd had a knife handy, the Gestapo might have very quickly found itself short by one _Kriminalinspektor_.

Elsie Cooper had no intention of being dismissed. "I am afraid I cannot leave the room, Captain," she replied, in the cool, scornful manner she had used all along for her alias. "It seems quite clear that a chaperone is required."

"I don't believe the _signorina_ is in need of a chaperone, under the circumstances," said Baumann.

"I was not concerned about the _signorina_." Elsie didn't allow so much as a flicker of emotion to cross her face, but Baumann flushed at her tone.

"Perhaps you would like to act as chaperone in the cells at Gestapo headquarters, after the concert," he observed. "I may even find the opportunity to spend some time alone with you, after I have finished my business with Madame Valensizi."

_Oh, you swine!_ thought Elsie.

Before she could come up with a reply, Claudia interrupted. "You may leave, Fräulein Moller," she said. "I do not wish that you should be forced to associate with this...this _animale_."

The captain turned to her with a frown, and Elsie spoke up quickly, to divert his attention. "All Gestapo are animals, _signorina_. But this one seems to take more pleasure in it than most. Some men are like that - when they feel inadequate in other areas."

Baumann took one step towards her, his hand raised. But Valensizi moved between them in a swirl of crimson satin, with the passion of every great role she had ever played condensed into one single sentence: "Don't you dare touch her."

For a second it looked like he would push her aside, but he managed to restrain himself. "My dear lady, I wouldn't dream of it. Not before the end of the concert. You do intend to sing, in spite of the circumstances?"

On the point of repudiating any such intention, Valensizi stopped, glancing at Elsie, then biting her lip uneasily. "It would cause you some embarrassment if I did not."

"It would. So I suggest you honour your commitment. Otherwise..." His eyes turned from her to Elsie, and after a moment, he added, "We have no interest in Fräulein Moller...yet. And, provided you give us your co-operation, I see no reason why that should change."

He was lying, and Elsie, at least, was aware of it. She knew he was Gestapo; he couldn't afford to let her spread the news around. But she sent a warning glance towards Claudia. If feigning compliance bought them enough time for Hogan to come up with something, then compliance was what Baumann would get.

Valensizi caught the look, and the flush on her cheeks deepened slightly. "_Va bene_. If you will allow, I must complete my vocal warm-up, which you interrupted."

Baumann gave permission with a smirk. The soprano turned away from him, and standing very still, upright but relaxed, began to sing arpeggios, very softly. After a moment, she stopped.

"I will have to start again," she informed Elsie, ignoring Baumann completely.

"You sound very tight, _signorina_," said Elsie. "This tension is not good for you." She went to the dressing table, and poured a glass of water from the large ornate jug which stood there. "Perhaps you should rest for a few minutes, and calm yourself," she added, offering the glass to Claudia.

The soprano took a sip, tilting her head back to allow the water to flow unimpeded. She did not respond to Elsie's suggestion, but after a few moments she put the glass down, straightened, placed one hand against her abdomen and began breathing deeply, in through the nose, out through her mouth. Baumann's smile grew cynical as he watched.

Elsie studied him surreptitiously, wondering whether there might be an opportunity to take him down. She doubted her chances; she was fit, and quite strong for such a slender woman, but to take on a trained Gestapo officer in peak physical condition was more than she could hope for.

Before she could make up her mind, there was a knock at the door. Valensizi's breathing exercise terminated in a startled intake.

"Stay there," ordered Baumann sharply. Then, without taking his eyes off the two women, he barked, "Come in."

The only reply was a further tentative tapping. Baumann gave voice to a low growl, and turned towards the door. Elsie tensed; but it was Valensizi who moved first. In one fluid movement, she snatched up the water jug from the dressing table, swinging it up and around. The contents flew out and across the room as the heavy glass crashed against the side of Baumann's head.

Elsie was surprised into uttering a shriek. She choked it off almost immediately, furious with herself; it was sure to attract the attention of the guards in the corridor. However, the man who burst through the door three seconds later wore a _Luftwaffe _uniform, not the black of the SS. He stopped dead, two steps into the room, staring at the unconscious man on the floor at Valensizi's feet.

He recovered quickly; he hadn't survived for ten years under cover in the _Abwehr_ by being slow-witted. Leaving Baumann for Hogan to take care of, he went straight to Claudia.

"Okay, honey," he said. "You're safe now." She gazed at him, immobilised by shock. The jug slipped from her fingers, and fell with a thud to the carpet. Then she shivered, and reached out for him.

Hogan stooped over Baumann, checking his vital signs. "Well, he's going to be out for a while," he observed, not without satisfaction. "That'll make things easier."

"He's not dead, then?" Elsie came to peer over his shoulder. "Shame," she added spitefully.

"Not really. That'd make things real messy," Hogan replied. "Newkirk - get undressed. Morrison..." He glanced across the room; Morrison met the look, and nodded. Gently detaching himself from Claudia's grip, he came to Hogan's assistance, while Elsie tried to soothe the soprano's overexcited nerves.

Newkirk, for once overcome by modesty, had retired behind a folding screen in one corner of the room. "You really think this is going to work, Colonel?" he asked.

"There's no reason why it shouldn't," replied Hogan, rapidly undoing the buttons on Baumann's uniform, while Morrison removed the man's boots. "As long as everyone keeps their head, and does what they're supposed to; as long as Klink doesn't take it into his head to start wandering round backstage to check on us; as long as the guards are too busy with their moment in the spotlight to pay much attention to the sick man in the dressing room; and as long as you and Morrison don't let anyone get close enough to get a good look at either of you. And provided Carter hasn't already turned temperamental and stormed off stage."

"Oh, well, put like that," murmured Newkirk, "how can it miss?"

Hogan laughed quietly. Then he sobered, looking at the two women. Elsie had persuaded Claudia to sit down, and was leaning over her protectively. The soprano was clearly overwrought, and would need careful handling; because the one element of the plan which now mattered more than any other was that Valensizi had to make her appearance onstage.

He finished removing Baumann's jacket. "Can you finish this, Morrison?" he murmured.

"Sure," replied Morrison. "Listen, what if he wakes up before we're done?"

"I doubt he will. Your lady friend seems to have given him a pretty hefty whack. But if he does..."

"I can help you with that," Elsie interrupted. "I've got something in my purse for situations like this." She left Claudia for a moment, to rummage in the small black bag. After what seemed an extended search, she produced a tiny glass vial. "Couple of drops in a glass of water, and he'll stay quiet for hours."

"Nice to see you've got something handy in case you run into trouble," remarked Newkirk from behind the screen.

"Or if I want to ditch some guy who's spinning me a line," Elsie retorted. "Like you did."

Hogan, leaving Morrison to deal with Baumann, stood up and went over to Claudia. He pulled up another chair and sat next to her. "_Signorina_," he said, in a quiet, level tone.

She didn't seem to hear him; her eyes, wide with distress, were fixed on Baumann. Hogan waited for a few seconds, before he spoke again: "Claudia..."

This time his voice broke through, and she raised her head slightly, then gave it a tiny shake.

"_Mi dispiace_," she whispered. "I...I...he's not dead?"

"No. Just out cold," Hogan replied quickly. A flush of colour swept across her face, and she breathed out sharply.

"I know you've had a really bad scare," Hogan went on. "But I have to ask you to pull yourself together, as fast as you can. In a few minutes, you're going to have to go on stage. I know," he went on quickly, as she made an instinctive gesture of refusal. "But if you don't sing, the Krauts are going to start wondering what's going on. And we can't afford that now. For your own sake, and for Morrison's as well, you have to finish your part in this."

He stopped there. If the plan failed now, they'd lose Morrison, possibly Elsie as well; and Valensizi's future, and that of the Stalag 13 operation, might not be particularly rosy, either. But he couldn't force the woman to go on. The decision had to be her own.

She didn't answer at once. Hogan left her to think it over, and went back to help Morrison. Between them they finished stripping off Baumann's uniform, and Elsie took it over to Newkirk.

"Oi! no peeking," he growled at her, snatching the clothes out of her hands.

"You sure the Stalag 13 guards won't notice this guy ain't Newkirk?" Morrison asked seriously.

Hogan grinned. "Three of them are in the wings watching the choir. The only one in the dressing room is Gluck, and he's not particularly sharp."

"He'd have to go to night school before he'd qualify to be considered thick as a plank," added Newkirk.

He emerged from behind the screen, still adjusting his borrowed uniform. "Not a perfect fit, Colonel, but it's not bad. Think I'll pass?"

"As long as you stay in dark corners as much as possible," replied Hogan. "And don't talk too much. Think you can handle that? I know it's a big ask, for you."

Newkirk didn't bother to reply, but his lips twitched. Hogan chuckled, then looked towards Valensizi. She hadn't moved.

Morrison was watching her, too. He stood up and went over to her. "You okay, beautiful?" he asked.

Claudia nodded slowly, without speaking.

"Ready to go on?"

She gazed up at him; then at Elsie, then Hogan.

"I have never missed a performance," she replied. "Not once." Her chin went up, and a spark appeared in her dark eyes. "I will be ready, as soon as I am called."

She held out her hand, and Morrison took it in both of his. Everything he wanted to say to her was in his face. They weren't alone, and there wasn't time for him to speak now. But Hogan smiled to himself, as the man who for ten years had kept every thought hidden revealed his deepest feelings in only three words:

"That's my girl."


	23. Chapter 23

"...but my mother found it depressing, listening to me practice," said Gluck, in a lugubrious tone. "So I had to give up learning the accordion."

"That must have been a great relief to the neighbours," remarked Doyle, maintaining his patience with difficulty.

He was attempting single-handed to finish cleaning up the cuts on his arm from the broken window. It didn't seem to have occurred to Gluck to offer any help, beyond going to look for the first aid kit; and he hadn't even found that. Hardly surprising, since there wasn't one.

He had seemed mildly concerned, on his return to the rehearsal room, to find Newkirk and Hogan missing, and it seemed a good idea for Doyle to distract him by asking if he played an instrument. He was regretting it. Gluck's history as a musician was dismal.

"So then, I joined the school band," Gluck went on. "I played the euphonium." He paused, and once again his aspect turned melancholy. "My cat ran away," he added.

Doyle's sympathies were entirely with the cat; but before he could say so, the door opened.

Gluck stared at the arriving party: Hogan and Morrison, supporting between them a third man, dark-haired and wearing the same black jacket as all the other prisoners in the choir. Hogan was holding a damp cloth to the man's head, and the edges drooped to hide his face, but it had to be Newkirk.

Except, of course, it wasn't. Doyle knew that, if Gluck didn't.

"_Was ist los_?" stammered the guard, dropping his rifle as he jumped to his feet.

"I'm afraid the excitement was too much for him," sighed Hogan. "He was fine till they got to _Fair Phyllis_. That one's just too stimulating - all that _up and down_ puts ideas in a man's head. I did warn you, Doyle. Some of the guys have had a long dry spell."

"My dear Colonel," replied Doyle primly, "if Newkirk can't cope with a little up-and-down at his age, I don't see why I should be held responsible."

Between them they laid the semiconscious man on the floor. Gluck hovered, trying to see what was going on, while Doyle made it his business to get in the guard's way.

"Just a faint, I think," Hogan added. "He'll be fine, with a little rest and quiet. Gluck, can you get him a glass of water?"

Completely unsuspicious, Gluck went off to fetch water, while Hogan and Morrison rolled Baumann over on to his side, with his back to the room, and covered him with a couple of overcoats. Then Morrison stood up and turned to block the guard's return.

"You know, I've been wondering where we met before," he said conversationally. "And I think I worked it out. When you were a boy, were you in the choir at St Cecilia's in Düsseldorf?"

As Gluck, unable to process two trains of thought at once, stopped in his tracks to think whether he'd ever set foot in St Cecilia's in Düsseldorf, Doyle removed the glass of water from his hand and passed it to Hogan, who added a couple of drops from Elsie's little glass vial, then held it to Baumann's lips as the man made a feeble attempt to raise his head. Whatever that girl had in there, it worked fast, and the captain sank back within seconds.

If rest and quiet was what he needed, rest and quiet was what he'd get.

* * *

Carter was starting to get the hang of this; he'd started out with the kind of arm-waving normally associated with directing traffic rather than musicians, but as the choir got through the first two or three songs with nothing more disastrous than an occasional wrong note (and the audience didn't notice a thing) he had begun to relax. He didn't exactly copy Doyle, who could manage the equivalent of a full callisthenics programme within one three-minute chorus, but his movements did start to look more less like swatting mosquitoes, and more like conducting.

It would be a stretch to say he was enjoying it. For a start, the performance was well into overtime, and the choir was running out of songs.

The original programme, over which Doyle had taken such pains, went out the window. _Clementine_ gave way to _Lilli Marlene_, who in turn was supplanted by _Maggie May_. Eventually they found their way back to the intended programme by way of _Linden Lea_; briefly lingered with _Shenandoah_, before sauntering out again in the direction of _Widdecombe Fair_.

They rolled out the barrel, and bet their money on the bob-tail nag; asked to be shown the way to go home, and queried some unnamed shepherd about where he'd lost his sheep. They even followed the yellow brick road. And after that, they got desperate, and decked the halls with boughs of holly.

The set had gone on for much longer than Doyle's precisely calculated eighteen and a half minutes, and the audience was showing signs of restlessness. Carter didn't dare turn and look, but as the whispers and rustlings from the auditorium reached him, he started to sweat, and took a surreptitious peek into the wings, to see if Hogan had arrived.

No sign of the colonel, but there was a figure in a Luftwaffe uniform, standing well back from Schultz and the other guards. Captain Baumann had come back; well, that was just perfect.

Then Carter looked again. There was something awfully familiar about that Kraut. A sudden smile swept across the conductor's face, when he realised who it was. Moreover, Newkirk was giving him a thumbs-up signal; all was well.

He turned back to the choir, and as they picked up on the sparkle in his eyes, a spirit of mischief took hold. Carter glanced at Beckett and gave a tiny nod.

"_All Through The Night_," he whispered.

The audience, sensing the anticipation that had sprung up onstage, fell silent, and the only sound to break the stillness was Beckett's voice, as he took the solo:

_Down behind the village dairy,  
All through the night,  
Colonel Klink and Dirty Mary,  
All through the..._

There were only two people in the auditorium with sufficient English to understand the words. Klink, after a few seconds of stupefaction, almost burst with outraged horror. But there wasn't much he could do about it. The other man who got the joke was sitting next to him in the box, laughing so hard he looked in danger of exploding. The Kommandant might get his own back, when they returned to Stalag 13; but he wouldn't dare take action as long as General Burkhalter found the matter so amusing.

And really, they sang it beautifully; Doyle would be proud of them.

"I guess we shouldn't have done that," said Kinch, as the ensemble filed offstage. But not one of them regretted it. Even if every man of them spent the next six months in the cooler, it had been worth it.

* * *

Notes:

_Fair Phyllis_: by John Farmer (c. 1570-1601)

_Maggie May_: Not the Rod Stewart classic, but the English folk song relating the sad tale of a young lady whose moral outlook doesn't really stand up to close scrutiny.

_Linden Lea_: Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958).

I'm sure you all know the rest.


	24. Chapter 24

Newkirk had brought the soprano and her accompanist down to the wings with him. As the men's choir finally made it off stage, he drew back into the dimness of the crossover, out of sight of the guards. Langenscheidt caught a brief glimpse of the retreating figure, and was momentarily struck by an entirely improbable sense of familiarity, but he had no chance to ponder on it.

"Hey, Langenscheidt," hissed LeBeau from behind him, "don't block the exit." And Langenscheidt, flustered, moved hastily aside, then tagged on behind the ensemble.

Claudia Valensizi stood on one side, waiting for the stage to clear. She didn't acknowledge the whispered good wishes of the departing ensemble by anything other than a heightened colour in her cheeks, and a gleam in her eyes. Every man of them wanted to stay and listen, but with the night's goal within sight, they all knew that pleasure was not for them. Only Newkirk remained, moving back into the wings to keep watch, as soon as the guards were out of the way. Baumann might be out of action, but his men were still about the building. If any of them showed up backstage, somehow Newkirk would have to get rid of them.

Not alone, though. He turned his head slightly as he sensed the arrival of all the backup he was going to get. "Thought you wouldn't want to miss this," he whispered.

Morrison, still in his borrowed uniform, nodded, but didn't take his eyes of the lady in crimson satin, as she took her place in the centre of the stage, her appearance met by the enthusiastic reception of an audience who had come here only to hear her voice. He had not been game to ask Hogan to let him come, but Hogan knew how much Morrison wanted to hear this performance. He realised, too, that Newkirk could use the help of an extra pair of eyes. So Morrison was there, to protect the woman who had saved his life, and who loved him as he loved her.

She was in the limelight now, where she belonged. She smiled, bowing her head slightly, allowing the applause to die away.

Elsie began to play, a bright, joyful ripple of notes, and Claudia's smile turned mischievous. She leaned forward slightly, as if inviting a few close friends to share a confidence; and everyone in the audience unconsciously edged forward to hear what that secret might be.

_Voi che sapete che cosa e amor,  
Donne, vedete, s'io l'ho nel cor..._

Newkirk had only a limited grasp of Italian, but he didn't need any more to know what the song was about. The meaning might be elusive, but the spirit came through in the laughter in Claudia's face, and the graceful, expressive movements of her hands.

Morrison wasn't looking at her; after so many years undercover, it was second nature to him to keep an eye out for approaching trouble. But there was no sign of danger, and nobody in sight but a couple of stage hands.

"I'll just nip over the other side," murmured Newkirk, and slipped back through the crossover, averting his face slightly as he caught sight of the assistant stage manager hanging around. As the man took a hesitant step towards him, he waved him back, and moved off quickly. The assistant was obviously too scared of Baumann to persist. He shrank back, and stayed where he was. In the near-darkness the resemblance of form was enough for Newkirk to get away with it.

Valensizi finished the first aria just as Newkirk reached the far wing. She accepted the applause with complacent calm, sent a warm smile towards General Burkhalter, just to keep him sweet, then lowered her gaze. A change came over her; the vivacity faded to stillness. The entire house became silent.

It was a more serious piece which followed; grave and steady, the melody simple enough, but charged with such sorrowful resignation that for a moment Newkirk's attention wavered. Once again, she sang in Italian; once again, it was the delivery that made sense of the unknown tongue.

_Brunhilda knows how to sell it, I'll give her that_, thought Newkirk.

Even he recognised the third of her songs. In the course of his extremely varied pre-war career, he'd once been taken on as a supernumerary in a production of _Madame Butterfly _in Cornwall. It had not been a happy experience; he'd given notice a week into the run, mostly on the basis of never wanting to hear that aria again. But the soprano in the concert hall at Falmouth had never sung it the way Claudia Valensizi did. No fluttering, inconsistent vibrato; no visible effort required to reach the high notes, nor any failure to do so; no desperate, overly dramatic gestures. Just a woman, expressing love and longing, trust and hope, in the way most natural to her, as easily as breathing.

That opera had not ended happily, as far as Newkirk remembered. They never did. But if he had any say in it, Claudia's fate was going to be happier than that of Cio-Cio San. She was a classy bird, and a brave lass as well. If anyone deserved to be happy for a while, at least as happy as was possible while this war was still going on, she and Morrison did.

A momentary pause preceded the applause, as if those listening had somehow sensed the real emotion behind the performance, and had been moved by it without quite knowing why. They could not be aware that, whatever happened, this would be Valensizi's last performance in the Third Reich; but they knew they'd just witnessed something extraordinary.

She gave a low, gracious curtsey, then another, and waited for a few seconds before leaving the stage. Elsie, seemingly as cool and unimpressed as ever, followed.

The engagement had been for only three songs. But the audience wanted more, and the applause continued until the soprano returned to the stage.

Once again she took her place, waiting. The noise died away; the music began, serene and peaceful. And this time Claudia sang in German, so openly, and with such simple honesty, that every word was transparently clear. But only three of her listeners - Newkirk, Elsie, and Robert Morrison - truly understood; this final song, heard by so many, was sung for one man.

_...and tomorrow the sun will shine again, and on the path I follow, we will be reunited, happy ones, surrounded by the sun-breathing earth; and we'll descend, slowly and quietly, to the wide, blue-waved beach, silently we'll look into each other's eyes, and around us the mute silence of happiness will fall._

A breathless hush lay over the entire house; everyone seemed awed into stillness. Then they gave voice to their heartfelt appreciation. And among the clamour of acclamation, perhaps more precious to her than any she had ever received, Claudia Valensizi took the final bow of her European career, and left the stage.

* * *

The four pieces that make up Valensizi's set are as follows:

_Voi che sapete_: from "The Marriage of Figaro", by W A Mozart. (1756-1791) "You who know what love is, ladies, see if I have it in my heart..."

_Lascia ch'io piango_: from "Rinaldo" by G F Händel (1685-1759)

_Un bel di_: from "Madama Butterfly" by Giacomo Puccini (1858-1924)

_Morgen:_ by Richard Strauss (1864-1949). The original words, in German, are by John Henry Mackay (1864-1933).


	25. Chapter 25

"This is a fine time for you to get stage fright, Schultz." Kinch folded his arms and leaned his shoulders against the door, effectively blocking the soloist's escape route.

Schultz stared at him, his head pulled down, his eyes wide with near panic. "Can you think of a better time?" he asked.

"He's got a good point there," said Carter. He was in extremely high spirits; if he made it through the finale without some kind of outbreak it would be a miracle.

Kinch glared him down. "You're not helping, Carter. Go and make yourself presentable. You look like you just came third in a jitterbug contest."

"Well, it's awful hard work, conducting," Carter replied, as he went to comb his hair.

Kinch turned his attention back to the agitated bundle of nerves in sergeant's uniform standing before him. "Listen, Schultz, you wouldn't want to let everyone down, right before the final number, would you? After all, once you get picked for a solo, you have a responsibility to the whole ensemble."

"Is there a problem?" Hogan had been talking quietly to Beckett when the disturbance at the door had drawn his attention. He put his hands in his pockets, and regarded Schultz with a faint smile.

"It's just the artistic temperament coming out in him, Colonel," said Kinch.

"Colonel Hogan, I can not do this," Schultz quavered. "What if I make a mistake? What if I sing flat? The Kommandant is in the audience. So is General Burkhalter. Please, Colonel Hogan, tell Doyle I can't sing. Tell him I have a cold. No - make it something worse. Tell him I have typhoid fever."

"You want me to lie to the conductor?" Hogan, scandalised, drew himself upright. "Schultz, I'm ashamed of you."

LeBeau, who was engaged in helping Carter with his bow tie, looked across at Schultz. "I say let him back out," he remarked, with a shrug. "Who needs him? Of course, the blonde in the soprano section will be disappointed, but _c'est la guerre_."

"You see? Even LeBeau thinks...wait a minute. Which blonde?" Schultz's attention took a sharp right-hand turn.

"The tall one in the back row. She was watching you the whole time we were singing." LeBeau smirked, and raised his eyebrows.

"Never took her eyes off you," added Kinch. "It was like she was mesmerised. You know, sometimes all it takes is one look. I bet your solo would have clinched it, too."

"She was looking at me?" Schultz's eyes grew wider, and an incredulous smile lit up his face.

"She sure was," said Carter enviously. "Gosh, if a pretty girl ever looked at me like that - heck, she wouldn't even have to be that pretty...but I guess I don't have what Schultz does." He finished with a despondent sigh.

"What - what do I have?"

"Animal magnetism, Schultz." Hogan took up the discussion, speaking with authority. "It's the only explanation. What I wouldn't give to have that kind of power over women... But guys that have got it never appreciate it." He paused, pondering the injustice, then added, "I wonder if she'll feel the same about whoever gets to sing in your place."

"Whoever gets to - Colonel Hogan, do you think I would let everybody down, right before the final number?" Schultz raised his head, with a little unconscious waggle of pride. "I would not dream of doing such a thing. Don't you know once you are given a solo, you have a responsibility?"

"Gee, Schultz, I guess none of us thought of that," said Hogan, with a sly glance at Kinch. "Now, why don't you go and get ready? You want to look your best, you know."

"I certainly do." Schultz sauntered off to attend to his appearance.

Hogan beckoned his men closer. "Okay. Change of plan. Because we've got to get the women out, we're taking a different tack, and for once it's a simpler one. The phony escape's off. I've just told Beckett."

"He looks disappointed," observed Kinch, with a glance in Beckett's direction. "I think he was looking forward to it. So what's the new plan, Colonel?"

Hogan grinned, and lowered his voice. "Newkirk, pretending to be Baumann, is going to get the girls out of here. They'll take Baumann's car and make their own way back to camp. Morrison goes with them as driver. Meanwhile, we're going to take the real Baumann with us, disguised as Newkirk. He'll go to England with Morrison, and spend the rest of the war in a nice safe POW camp in the English countryside."

"Won't the SS query why Baumann's taking a Luftwaffe private along, instead of one of his own men?" asked LeBeau doubtfully.

"I don't think so," replied Hogan, his grin turning smug. "The SS goons have to stay on duty here, so the dangerous fugitive doesn't escape. Which makes escaping that much easier for him."

He turned his attention to Doyle. In the midst of the general hubbub he stood in his own small private space, eyes fixed but unseeing, frowning slightly, his hands making small gestures which would, in a few minutes, be repeated at full scale on stage. The makeshift bandages covering the cuts on his forearm were just visible at the cuff of his sleeve, but if the injuries were still causing him discomfort, he was now oblivious to it. He knew best how to manage his part in this mission; Hogan left him to it.

A timid knock at the door preceded the arrival of the same young private who'd summoned them at the start of the show.

"_Bitte_," he stammered, almost inaudibly. "_Zwei Minuten_."

"Okay, men, fall in." Hogan raised his voice, and with a great deal of laughter and shoving, the prisoners got into line. Langenscheidt and Gluck, as neat and well-groomed as a pair of schoolboys going to their first communion, went ahead, while Telemann and Schultz brought up the rear.

Not one of them gave a thought to the unconscious man left alone in the dressing room. Hogan gave Baumann a quick glance as he went out with the ensemble, but he showed no signs of waking. Elsie had said he would sleep for hours; there was no need to worry about him.

The curtain had been drawn, to spare the audience the sight of an undignified scrimmage as the orchestra and choir took their places. Doyle remained detached, allowing them to get sorted out in their own way. He issued only one instruction, and that was to Schultz: "When it's time to sing, old chap, just keep your eyes on me. Nobody else matters."

Hogan had found a convenient vantage point in the wings. The turn of events backstage had prevented him seeing the contribution of his own men under Carter's direction, a lost opportunity he would always think of with regret. He'd had to miss Claudia Valensizi's performance as well. But at least he'd get to hear this.

The orchestra tuned up; the choir stopped milling around, and a hush fell. The curtains parted, to a burst of applause from an audience not yet descended from the heights the soprano had taken them to. Lieutenant Doyle stepped out into the lights, as cool and confident as if this were a rehearsal. Then, as the clapping died away, he swept a look around his performers, making sure they were all ready; and gave the upbeat.

The _Chorgemeinschaft _and orchestra had been working on this grand finale for months, but Doyle was well aware of the potential for collapse among the less well-rehearsed Stalag 13 contingent, and he'd steeled himself to be ruthless. Omitting all solos except one, excising the slow sections, even sacrificing the double fugue, he'd brought it down to a bare seven minutes of highlights. He'd felt incredibly guilty about the hatchet job he'd done on it. Nevertheless, as the familiar theme took shape, an air of satisfaction, tangible if inaudible, spread among the audience.

Schultz, his eyes fixed on the conductor, began with a slight wobble; but within two bars the absolute joy of the piece lifted him above himself, and if his singing wasn't classical, it was certainly heartfelt.

The entire ensemble joined in, responding to Doyle's expressive direction with everything they had. They'd had only three days of rehearsal; not one of them was a professional musician; they were from opposing sides of the greatest conflict in human history; but none of that mattered. For those few minutes, nothing else existed, only the sheer exhilaration of words and music.

A sharp cut-off from Doyle signalled an abrupt pause; the orchestra began again, slowly and softly, but with a suppressed excitement which drove the music ever faster, bringing the chorus back into the game before they'd got their breath back. Doyle seemed almost possessed; every beat, every gesture was as clear and precise as a full mission briefing. And somehow, as the tempo accelerated, and _ff_ ascended to _fff_, the musicians and singers managed to stay together. Hogan, in the wings, held his breath. Even on the most dangerous assignments, he'd never been so keenly aware of the edge of disaster beneath his feet.

Then came a momentary levelling off, a brief rest from the relentless energy of the piece, rising into a last jubilant _Freude, schöne Gotterfunken_ from the chorus, then to an explosive _prestissimo_ from the orchestra, finishing so abruptly that for several seconds not a sound was heard in the house. It wasn't till Doyle turned to the audience, and bowed gravely, that the applause began.

Hogan began breathing again, as he joined in the ovation. He knew the performance had been flawed; but from where he stood, the elation on every performer's face was obvious. Carter was shaking with astonished, helpless laughter, a response shared by Langenscheidt; Kinch looked as if he'd just been shown an entire universe he never knew existed; LeBeau, in spite of his contempt for all things German, was almost in tears. Schultz, for once in his life, stood upright, glowing with pride and dignity.

Doyle turned back. His eyes met those of his chief antagonist. And Beckett gave him a nod, and a slight grin. As far as he was concerned, that was it. Doyle had proved himself. From now on, he would have the full support of the worst bunch of ruffians in Stalag 13.

And Hogan, taking in all of this, smiled. The change of plan had an unexpected side benefit. They'd ended the concert on a high note, and now nobody had to go and spoil it by escaping.

* * *

_An die Freude:_ from the fourth movement of the Ninth Symphony ("Choral"), music by Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827), words (mostly) by Friedrich von Schiller (1759-1805). Beethoven chose to omit a lot of Schiller's original material, so he can't really complain about Doyle's abridged version. Well, he probably could, but he's not going to, is he?


	26. Chapter 26

"Here, they don't sound bad at all, do they?" said Newkirk, pausing at the top of the stairs as he led the way down to the stage door. "I'm sorry I missed out."

He was clad in Baumann's topcoat and cap, having retrieved them from the backstage cloakroom. For the sake of appearances, in case they met anyone, Claudia Valensizi was hanging on his arm. She still wore crimson silk, which was only partly hidden by her cloak of heavy dark fur. Elsie followed close behind them, with Morrison bringing up the rear.

The orchestra and chorus were just audible, as if from a great distance; and Newkirk was right. They sounded pretty good.

"_Signor_ Doyle has a great gift," replied Claudia. "Perhaps when he returns to England..."

"Afraid that won't happen for some time, love - I mean, ma'am." Newkirk corrected himself hastily. "Let's see about getting you there first. Now, we all know what to do, right?"

The soprano was still in a state of high emotion, her face flushed and her eyes glittering. She gave a slightly histrionic laugh. "_Sì._ But I find it detestable."

"Thank you," he retorted. "That really makes me feel appreciated." Elsie giggled, and he gave her a sour look.

"Morrison - you go in front," he went on.

Morrison gave Claudia a long, keen-eyed look, before he moved ahead and proceeded down the stairs. Elsie, at a nod from Newkirk, followed.

Newkirk turned back to Claudia. She was on edge, now she no longer had a performance to focus on, and she would need careful handling. He'd never been very good at approaching women with tact and discretion; and the plan Hogan had devised for their exit didn't make it any easier. But he could only try. "All right," he murmured. "Time to put on a show."

He put his arm around her waist, and as they reached the bottom of the stairs, ventured to nuzzle her ear. She permitted it, but he could feel how tense she was, in every nerve and tendon. "Try and relax a bit, love," he whispered. "We have to make it look genuine, just for ten minutes. After that, you can give me a good smack in the mouth, and then you'll feel much happier. Deal?"

"_Va bene_," she murmured back. "That is a promise." She took in a deep breath, and let herself droop against his shoulder.

Two of Baumann's SS soldiers were still on duty at the stage door. Morrison glanced back over his shoulder to make sure all was well before he approached them.

"Captain Baumann has come to an arrangement with the _signorina_," he said gruffly. "He is taking her back to her hotel for a little private interrogation." And he gave a one-sided, knowing grin.

It was a fairly bold gambit, and a difficult pitch for all concerned. But as Hogan had pointed out, when he'd laid it out before the participants, Baumann had been taking notice of Valensizi for days; and he certainly wouldn't be the first Gestapo creep to offer an attractive woman immunity, in return for a particular kind of co-operation. Of course, this lady would never even contemplate such an arrangement, but the Krauts weren't to know that. Thinking the worst of civilians was ingrained in Gestapo culture. Those SS guards at the door wouldn't find it at all unlikely.

None of them liked the plan. Even Newkirk had reservations. It felt wrong, somehow, making use of Brunhilda like this, especially when she was already thoroughly wound up. But it seemed the best available chance to get Morrison and the women out of the building.

For Morrison's sake, Claudia had agreed; and for her sake, Morrison was going along with it. Newkirk could hardly hold out against that.

Morrison looked from one SS guard to the other. "Where is the captain's car?" he asked.

"In the alley behind the theatre," was the reply. "But..."

"Go and bring it here," growled Newkirk, keeping his face close to Claudia's ear, while she tilted her head forward slightly to keep him from being seen.

"I think the captain meant right away," added Morrison, as the soldiers hesitated. "He's in a hurry to...to question the lady."

The two men looked slyly at each other, before one of them gave a smirk and went off. A couple of minutes later, Baumann's car rolled into view, and came to a halt before the stage door.

"Do you want me to drive, Captain?" asked the man who had fetched it.

Newkirk, more deeply entangled than ever, merely waved him aside.

"I believe the captain requires you to stay here, and continue the search for the enemy agent," explained Morrison. "He ordered me to drive him to the hotel."

The German hesitated, his eyes taking in Morrison's borrowed _Luftwaffe_ uniform. "You are one of the prison camp guards? Shouldn't you remain to guard the prisoners?"

Morrison didn't bat an eyelid. "There are other guards here, I can be spared. Capturing the American spy is a top priority, and needs every available man."

"But..."

"You have your orders. Back to your post." Another muffled command from Newkirk was enough to deter any further argument. The man snapped to attention, and saluted, then retreated to the doorway again.

Morrison opened the rear door of the car, and stood aside while the pair, by now so closely entwined as to appear almost inextricable, disappeared into the back seat. Then he turned to Elsie. "If you please, _Fräulein_."

She scowled, with a petulant wriggle of her shoulders, but allowed him to hand her into the front passenger seat, before he took his own place behind the wheel.

"Looks like we pulled it off," he said, as the car turned the corner and accelerated. "Those two idiots went straight back to guarding the exit."

Newkirk raised his head, and took his arm from around Claudia. "Thank heaven for that," he remarked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "Cor blimey, I've had some chancy doings in my time, but I can't remember the last time I was that bleedin' scared."

"Of the SS?" asked Elsie, raising her eyebrows as she looked at him.

"SS? Do me a favour, darling. Getting past them was the easy part," replied Newkirk. "But being ordered to take liberties with _la signorina _here - well, frankly, I'm surprised I didn't just cut and run, right there."

"It's never been a problem for me," said Morrison.

"With respect, sir, you've just spent ten years undercover in the German army. I shouldn't think there was anything left that could frighten you." Newkirk leaned back, with a sigh. "Well, at least that's over. Driver, Stalag 13, if you please." He slipped into a perfectly enunciated Oxbridge accent. "And don't dawdle on the way, there's a good chap."

* * *

In the dressing room, a general atmosphere of excitement still reigned.

"You wouldn't like to reconsider, Colonel?" said Beckett, under cover of the noise the others were making. "Only me and the lads were looking forward to having a bit of a lark, you know. It's not often we get to play hide and seek with the goons."

Hogan looked around, checking on the guards. All four of them were in the most gleeful spirits. He couldn't bring himself to spoil the atmosphere, and in any case the fake escape was no longer needed.

"Not tonight," he replied _sotto voce_. "We've got a lot to do once we get back to camp, and we don't want any unnecessary delays or complications. But I'm sure I can think of something to make up for it. If you behave yourselves now, maybe on the next mission you and your boys can have some fun."

"I'll hold you to that, sir," Beckett grinned, and moved off to get back into his own uniform. Kinch and Carter had already changed, and were engaged in putting Newkirk's clothes onto the unconscious Baumann, while the rest of the men, following LeBeau's lead, ran interference with the guards. As every one of them, Germans and prisoners alike, was in a wild state of Beethoven-induced euphoria, it wasn't difficult. And when someone started up with their own Klink-inspired version of _All Through The Night_, Schultz was the first to join in.

As the noise of singing and laughter rose, Hogan moved towards the corner farthest from the door, where Doyle was sitting on one of the few chairs. He was the only one, apart from Hogan, who hadn't entered into the impromptu singalong. He looked tired, but there was an air of peace about him which Hogan couldn't remember seeing before.

"You did a good job, Doyle," he remarked. "There's a couple of people very much in your debt tonight."

"Believe me, sir," replied Doyle, in a soft, tranquil tone, "I was happy to do it. More than happy."

He smiled as he watched his ensemble winding down in their own way. And although he took no part in the riotous merriment all around them, Hogan got the feeling there wasn't a man in the room who was happier right now than the director of the Stalag 13 Male Voice Choir.


	27. Chapter 27

It didn't seem as if much ingenuity would be needed to get Baumann into the truck with the prisoners. The guards were still too exhilarated to pay much attention to one sick _Engländer_, although Schultz did take the trouble to ask whether poor Newkirk was feeling better for his long sleep.

"Much better, Schultz," replied Hogan, making sure he stayed in the way of Schultz's line of sight. "But perhaps we should get him back to camp, before things get worse again."

Baumann was starting to come round; he had woken sufficiently for the men to get him onto his feet, but not enough to be troublesome. Dowland and Purcell took charge of him, while the other men milled around to keep the Krauts from noticing the substitution.

They received some unexpected assistance, in the form of a backstage visitor. His first knock on the door, though vigorous, failed to attract the notice of any of the guards. A second, louder rapping reached LeBeau's ears; he answered it without interrupting his argument with Carter, and glanced indifferently at the caller. Then he looked again.

"General Burkhalter," he said, raising his voice so Hogan would hear it. "Nice of you to drop by, sir."

Burkhalter edged into the room; not an easy manoeuvre for a man whose lateral dimensions almost equalled his vertical stature. The hubbub died away as first the prisoners, then the guards, noticed his presence. Klink, creeping in behind the general, was ignored.

"_Achtung_!" bellowed Schultz belatedly, the last man in the room to become aware of the General's arrival. The four guards snapped to attention; the prisoners went back to their own concerns.

"Colonel Hogan, allow me to offer you my congratulations on tonight's performance," said Burkhalter, putting on his most affable expression. It had an immediate effect; the men fell completely silent, Carter began backing away, and Telemann and Gluck made simultaneous and utterly futile attempts to get behind each other.

Hogan's self-assurance didn't falter. "Gee, thanks, General," he replied, returning Burkhalter's smile with one equally false. "But I gotta tell you, I can't take all the credit. Doyle had a lot to do with it, too. And let's not forget Carter's part in it."

Doyle produced a complacent smirk, while Carter went scarlet, and retreated a couple of extra steps. Klink turned a furiously glinting monocle on him. "I can assure you, Hogan, I will not forget Carter's contribution," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"I think we will all treasure that memory, Klink," added Burkhalter, and for a moment his reptilian eyes showed a spark of genuine amusement. "Hogan, I wonder if I might have a word with you. Also with Doyle, and his stand-in. The rest of the prisoners may leave."

"But, gosh, General, we'll miss our ride," Hogan protested. "And it's an awfully long walk to Stalag 13, and it's dark out there."

"This will only take a moment, Hogan. I'm sure the driver will wait for you."

Burkhalter sent a cold glare in the direction of Schultz, who responded immediately. "Everybody out to the truck, _schnell_. Not you, Carter, you stay here. Langenscheidt, Gluck, you lead the way."

"You will wait too, Schultz," Burkhalter added. "Let us not forget, these men are still prisoners, and must be guarded at all times."

"Oh, but of course, General. I assure you, they have not been out of my sight this evening, not for one minute." Schultz drew himself upright, and raised his chin.

"Yeah, and with all he had on his mind, what with singing a solo and all - you know, I'm starting to think there's something in this superman idea, at least where Schultz is concerned," observed Hogan. "The man's a machine - a perfectly efficient machine."

"With a few rusty gears in it," added Klink under his breath.

Burkhalter paid no heed to this, merely waiting till the room had cleared. Then he turned to Doyle. "I understand your absence at the opening of the second half was due to some kind of injury."

"A minor mishap, General," replied Doyle. His gaze didn't falter, and only the familiarity Hogan had developed over the past few days allowed him to recognise the increased tension in Doyle's bearing. "All I required was a little first aid, and a short time to compose myself."

"How fortunate that you were able to find such a capable substitute," Burkhalter remarked, his eyes fixing on Carter, who gazed back with his usual wide-eyed innocence. "Although I must say, he does not look like someone who would have the ability to step into such a role at short notice."

"You can't judge a man like Carter by appearances, sir," Hogan put in. "He may not look much, but he's just full of surprises." Which was absolutely true, if Burkhalter only knew it.

"Carter?" Klink waved a dismissive hand. "He's just a sergeant. And not a very good one, either."

"That's nothing to go by. Why, I heard there was this little Austrian corporal once - absolutely hopeless as a soldier, but I believe he took up painting later on, and..."

"That will do, Hogan," growled Klink. "And Schultz, stop that sniggering."

Burkhalter was not to be distracted. "I am sure the change of conductors did not detract from the performance. In fact, I found it most entertaining. However, I would like to know more about this mishap." He finished on a slightly rising inflection, one eyebrow ascending on the final word.

This was awkward. Burkhalter was a lot smarter than Klink, and much harder to discourage; if he found out the true circumstances of Doyle's injury, he was likely to pursue the matter all the way back to Morrison.

"Well, General..." began Hogan, trying to extemporise a likely scenario. But Doyle, unfamiliar with Hogan's usual tactics, had already decided to keep it simple.

"I was on my way to the dressing room, and I tripped and put my arm through a glass panel in one of the doors," he explained coolly. "Would you like to see the damage?" He had been removing the bandaging while the others were speaking, and he now pulled back his sleeve and held out his arm for inspection.

"Wow, it almost looks like writing, doesn't it?" said Carter, leaning over for a better look. "What's it say - E...D...U..."

"Enough, Carter," snapped Klink, who had blanched and turned his eyes away.

"See, General, it's not so bad. It was just a little messy." Hogan took up the case again. "And we didn't want to spoil the show by leaving a pool of blood on the stage. That wouldn't be right, would it?"

Burkhalter, expressionless, regarded the three prisoners for a few moments. "Very well, Hogan. We will leave it at that. Schultz, take them back to Stalag 13." And he took his departure.

"I will have more to say to you later, Hogan." Klink had to have the final word. "And to whoever was responsible for that outrageous display of impertinence, as well."

Carter swallowed nervously, and glanced at Hogan. "Well, actually, Kommandant..." he began.

"That was Captain Baumann's idea," Hogan put in quickly. "You'll have to take it up with him. I'm sure he's around the place somewhere."

"Captain Baumann?" Klink almost dropped his monocle in his astonishment.

"Yeah. He wrote the words and everything. You know, he's awfully good at English slang, for a _Luftwaffe _officer. Kinda makes you wonder...well, never mind. Can we go home now, Kommandant? It's been a long night."

Klink continued to peer at Hogan with pale, malevolent eyes for several seconds before he growled, "Dismissed."

"Boy, Colonel, you don't think Burkhalter suspects anything, do you?" whispered Carter, as the three prisoners preceded Schultz through the maze of passages towards the stage door.

"Oh, he suspects something, all right," replied Hogan with a grin. "But don't worry about it. He's got no idea what it is."

An hour later, after a noisy and cheerful journey, the truck rolled in through the main gate of Stalag 13 and came to a stop in front of Barracks 2. Hogan leaned forward, peering out past Telemann's solid bulk in search of the signal which would indicate Newkirk's safe arrival. He was not disappointed; as agreed, a wooden pail had been left upside-down on the bench outside the barracks door. That part of the operation had obviously gone well.

As soon as Telemann had managed a slow and heavy descent from the truck, Hogan jumped down next to him. "Okay, fellas, keep the noise down," he said. "You want to wake up the whole camp?"

"We're just letting off steam, Colonel," sang out Beckett's voice from within the truck.

"That's right, sir," added Doyle, as he dismounted in turn. "It's been a very enlivening experience, you must make allowances. One always has to wind down after a successful performance, you know. Perhaps we should have stopped somewhere for a drink on the way home."

His choristers greeted this suggestion enthusiastically, but Schultz, bustling round from the cabin, put a lid on it at once. "Quiet!" he bellowed.

In the subsequent hush, LeBeau poked him in the ribs, none too gently. "Schultz, do you mind? There's people trying to sleep in the barracks. You Germans are so rude sometimes."

"Don't be too hard on him, LeBeau," said Hogan. "It's how the German army trains its soldiers to communicate. They don't allow anything less than _mezzoforte_, and even that they don't really approve of."

He glanced around at his men. Most of them were out of the truck; Carter and Kinch had unloaded the hapless Baumann, and were taking him to the barracks, shielded from view by the men from Doyle's hut, while Beckett's rowdies kept the guards occupied by resisting all efforts to get them into line. A little extra diversion wouldn't hurt. "Okay, men, fall out. Back to the barracks," said Hogan. "Quietly."

"_Aber nein_. We have to do a head count first," stuttered Schultz. "You men there, come back at once." And he hurried after the prisoners in the manner of a mother hen attempting to round up a litter of ducklings. Langenscheidt and Telemann followed, while Gluck stood and stared.

Kinch and Carter had reached the barracks door; they shoved Baumann into the arms of the men inside, and another figure in RAF blue slipped out to take his place. Just in time; having brought the dispersal to a halt, Schultz's eye fell on the little group outside Barracks 2. "You men there, line up. The rest of you, as well."

With a great deal of laughter and shoving, the men got into line; no longer Doyle's well-disciplined choral ensemble, but a disorderly mob of ruffians, impatiently waiting for the goons to get their lousy head-count over with, so they could go to bed.

"And no talking," Schultz added severely, before he went to the end of the line, and began counting his way along. He paused briefly in front of Newkirk, who gazed back with half-closed eyes, leaning heavily on Carter's shoulder.

"You don't look so sick," remarked Schultz.

"Actually, Schultz, I'm feeling a lot better," murmured Newkirk weakly. "I only feel faint when I stand up."

Schultz peered at him for a few moments longer. "All right. You can go back to the barracks."

As the men scattered, each to their own place, Hogan found it impossible to keep from smiling at the fragment of song drifting across the compound. From the sound of things, this whole operation had produced at least one unexpected side benefit.

_Deine Zauber binden wieder,  
Was die Mode streng geteilt,  
Alle Menschen werden Brüder,  
Wo Dein sanfter Flügel weilt._

The two voices, so long at odds, had finally found perfect accord. Doyle and Beckett would probably never be friends, but at last they had worked out how to be comrades.

* * *

Notes: Doyle and Beckett are, of course, singing _An die Freude_.

There is a hidden musical reference in this chapter. It's not hard to spot, and your challenge is to identify the work and the composer. (Don't put the answer in your reviews - let everyone else have fun, too. Send me a private message.) Bonus points if you can also tell me which episode of _Hogan's Heroes_ has a tenuous connection to the same work. And I'll give you a hint: it's not a choral piece.

The answer, and credit for correct guesses, will be posted with Chapter 28.


	28. Chapter 28

"You know something, Hogan?" said Morrison. "I think I'm actually more scared now than I was two days ago."

He didn't look scared, or even worried, as he waited with Hogan at the edge of a level field not far from Stalag 13. Claudia Valensizi stood close to him, leaning against his shoulder; there was a stillness and serenity about her, very unlike how she had been when Hogan and his men first saw her.

Hogan laughed under his breath. "You've been away a long time."

"Yeah. A very long time." Morrison fell silent, thinking about what might have changed at home during his absence, and what adjustments he would have to make. Claudia nestled closer, and reached up to pinch his ear.

"You will be with me, _bello_," she said gently. "Is that not enough?"

He answered with only a half-smile, but she seemed satisfied.

Baumann, standing further back and guarded by Newkirk and Kinch, gave a snort of contempt.

"You want to elaborate on that?" asked Newkirk, raising the pistol in his hand. Then, as Baumann chose to ignore him, he turned to Elsie. "Nasty tempers, these Gestapo blokes have. Now, if you wanted a more friendly travelling companion..."

"Is that an offer?" Elsie had her cool, sulky look on again, but Newkirk was no longer fooled by it. "It's tempting, but what would Colonel Hogan say?"

"I'd say you're probably safer with Baumann," replied Hogan over his shoulder.

Newkirk rolled his eyes, opened his mouth to protest, then laughed. "And he'd be right, you know. Perhaps I should give it a miss this time, love."

"Then I'll just have to put up with the captain. I'm sure I can survive one plane trip in his company," said Elsie. "And if he gives me any trouble, I'll shoot him."

"You would not dare," Bauman snapped.

"Would you like to make a bet on it, Captain? Only I'll have to ask you to put your money up in advance," said Newkirk. Baumann glared at Elsie, who gazed back impassively. She would; no question about it.

"Colonel, plane coming," called Carter from his position at the corner of the fence.

"Just a couple more minutes, and you'll be on your way." Hogan looked up, tracking the small plane's approach. "And I'd say you'll be welcomed in London with open arms, Morrison. There's not many get the VIP travel package."

"Probably on Claudia's account," replied Morrison. "She's used to travelling in style."

The ground was a little uneven, and the landing was rough, but successful. "Okay, men, let's move," said Hogan. "Morrison, good luck."

"Thanks, Hogan. Thanks for everything." Morrison nodded a farewell, Claudia Valensizi smiled her languid smile, and hand-in-hand they headed for the plane. The reluctant Baumann followed, escorted as far as the steps by Kinch and Newkirk; once on the plane, he would be Elsie's responsibility, and if she couldn't handle him, Morrison was armed as well.

Elsie, last one to board, paused to look back at Newkirk. "You'll be back in London one day," she said.

"I expect so." He returned her smile. "Let's leave it at that for now, right?"

She disappeared inside, and the door closed behind her. The plane turned, trundled across the field again, and gained the air, and soon only the distant note of the engine remained.

"You know something, _mon Colonel_?" murmured LeBeau. "I'm starting to think Morrison is almost good enough for her."

Hogan looked down at him, his eyes gleaming with laughter. "I'm so glad you approve, LeBeau. Maybe they'll invite you to the wedding. Hey, they might even ask the choir to sing." He paused, and a slight crease appeared between his eyebrows. "There's just one problem, that I can see."

"What's that, Colonel?" asked Kinch. "You thinking Klink won't give us a three-day pass to attend?"

"No. I'm thinking the happy couple might not want to risk it," replied Hogan pensively. "After all, Carter might be the one choosing the repertoire."

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Kommandant?" Hogan breezed into Klink's office in his usual brisk manner.

"Yes, Hogan, at ease." Klink greeted his opposite with a fixed, false smile. "I've just been speaking to General Burkhalter, who informs me that the proceeds of the concert last Saturday night have made a substantial difference to the Winter Relief Appeal. He has requested me to pass on the thanks of the committee to your men, especially to Lieutenant Doyle." He paused, the smile fading slightly; then with the air of a man who was only following orders, and didn't much care for them, he added, "He also asked me to thank Carter for his part in keeping the show going. General Burkhalter found the prisoners' performance very entertaining." His voice dropped to a grumble on the last few words.

"Well, you know, Kommandant, anything in a good cause," replied Hogan genially. "Speaking of which, when can we expect the extra blankets to be issued?"

Klink waved a hand, putting the question aside. "You'll get them."

"Well, I hope so. I'd hate to have to tell General Burkhalter that you went back on our agreement."

"General Burkhalter has too much on his mind to worry about such matters." Klink leaned back, and pressed his fingertips together. "You remember his aide, Captain Baumann?"

"Let me think," said Hogan, frowning in thought. "Wasn't he the stage manager at the fundraiser? Nice guy, hope we see him again."

"You will not see him again, Hogan," replied Klink. "Captain Baumann went missing immediately after the concert. It's just been discovered that he defected to England. Would you believe it, Hogan? A fine young officer like that, to defect without any warning. And who do you think went with him? You'll never guess, not in a million years. It's simply fantastic, nobody would have suspected..."

"Claudia Valensizi?"

"...I mean, I knew they got on well, but I had no...How did you know?"

Hogan shrugged. "Just a lucky guess."

Klink regarded him suspiciously for a few seconds. "Hogan, if you know anything about this matter, I suggest you tell me about it now. The Gestapo are investigating the matter, and if they want to question you or your men, I will not be able to protect you."

"Oh, come on, Colonel," Hogan protested. "If a man of the world like you had no idea what was going on, what would I know, after two years locked up in here?"

"That's true," conceded Klink. "To be honest, Hogan, I never trusted that woman. I knew she was up to something. She might have had Burkhalter fooled - he's so easily taken in - but I just knew."

"It's not everyone has your powers of perception, Kommandant," murmured Hogan. "If only you'd said something at the time."

Klink held up his hands, resigned to the inevitable. "They never listen," he said sadly. And he fell silent, reflecting on the blindness of the men in command.

"Is there anything else, sir?" asked Hogan, after a respectable interval. "Only I'm late for choir rehearsal, and Doyle gets very cross about unpunctuality."

"No, that was all, Hogan," said Klink vaguely. "Dismissed."

He remained lost in contemplation for a minute or so after Hogan's departure. Then he gave his head a shake, and went back to his paperwork. He picked up a pen, and began to sign a report, but stopped in mid-signature. "Choir rehearsal? _Hogan!_"

He jumped to his feet, then uttered a low, frustrated growl, and sat down again. He had no justification for trying to stop the men from singing. Still, at least this way he'd know what they were up to, for a couple of hours. And after all, it was a pretty harmless activity.

The ensemble was still meeting in the recreation hall. Numbers had increased a little since the concert; a few more of Beckett's boisterous crowd, a few extras from Barracks 2. Apparently word had got around that they weren't just singing madrigals any more. And as long as it didn't interfere with their work, Hogan had no objection. In fact, he'd come to the conclusion that it wouldn't hurt any man in the camp to have another form of recreation for slow days. Himself included.

Doyle, in his usual place in front of the choir, looked around as Hogan tiptoed in. "I'm afraid you've missed the warm-up, sir," he said; and it was a measure of his respect for the senior POW officer that he managed to sound only mildly disapproving.

"I was in Klink's office," Hogan explained, amused at how much he sounded like a tardy schoolboy telling the teacher he'd been detained by the headmaster.

Doyle sighed. "Well, as long as you have a good excuse. Go and stand with the baritones, please."

Hogan did as he was told, with an air of meek compliance which didn't fool anybody.

"Now, we're going to start work on something new. I'm sure you're all familiar with it," said Doyle. "We'll sing unison for now, and split into parts at the next rehearsal, if we're not all in the cooler by then." He waited for the laughter to die down. "Carter, the note. Everyone got it? On the up-beat, please.."

And a few moments later, the combined voices of the expanded Stalag 13 Male Voice Choir were heard throughout the camp. Klink, in his office, clenched his fists in wordless, impotent rage; and at his post by the water tower, Schultz beamed, and started humming along.

_If you want to find the Kommandant, I know where he is,  
I know where he is, I know where he is,  
If you want to find the Kommandant, I know where he is,  
He's miles and miles behind the line.  
__I've seen him, I've seen him, miles and miles behind the line._

* * *

Note: the hidden reference from Chapter 27.

_"Wow, it almost looks like writing, doesn't it?" said Carter, leaning over for a better look. "What's it say - E...D...U..."_

The work in question is the Enigma Variations, composed by Edward Elgar. Each of the variations has a nickname or set of initials, referring to one of Elgar's friends, as a preface. The fourteenth and final variation is subtitled "E.D.U", a reference to the composer himself.

The ninth variation, and the best known, is subtitled "Nimrod", and the episode where this name features is "The Missing Klink". It doesn't specifically refer to the Enigma Variations, but I like to think the writer had them in mind.

I might have made this one a little harder than I meant to, as there was only one correct response. Full marks to Sgt. Moffitt, who spotted the clue and tracked down the answer.

The song which ends this chapter is adapted from the World War 1 troop song, _Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire_.


End file.
